


What did I do?

by CrowHorse1, Dreamsnake



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angry Sam, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-04
Updated: 2016-10-04
Packaged: 2018-08-19 14:12:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 26,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8211388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrowHorse1/pseuds/CrowHorse1, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dreamsnake/pseuds/Dreamsnake
Summary: There is something wrong with Sam.Confused and hurt, Dean doesn't know what to do as he is trapped in a loop of misery, trying to cope with his brother's anger.Can anyone help before one of the brothers goes over the edge?Some dark themes are addressed in this story."Dean gulped, a little winded but more shocked than anything. After a moment, painfully aware of the staring faces, he took out his keys with shaking hands and got into the Impala, trying to work out just what he'd done that was so bad."





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story is set during the first season so may contain spoilers for canon events in that time. It fits loosely in the gap between episodes 1:11 and 1:12. Warnings for some violent scenes.
> 
> Disclaimer: Dean, Sam and any characters from the TV show Supernatural do not belong to me in any way (sadly). I am just playing with the characters and paying homage to the truly great series that is Supernatural. This story is written purely for enjoyment, with no profit of any kind expected, intended or desired.

 

Now

Dean shifted his position behind the wheel, feeling uncomfortable and miserable. The waves of anger coming from Sam were almost palpable, flooding across the space between them and causing his skin to prickle uneasily. Lately it seemed as though Sam was angry all the time and Dean was starting to feel he couldn't do or say anything without riling his little brother.

-o-

Earlier…

It had started a few weeks earlier. There'd been a string of small, simple jobs, none of them particularly memorable, followed by the inevitable few days in a run-down motel while they searched for the next case.

Dean noticed that Sam was moody, but at first he didn't think it was anything unusual. They lived and worked in close-quarters, so it was natural that sometimes they just got on each other's nerves, simple as that. Dean expected him to snap out of it after a couple of days, but instead Sam became more and more angry.

At first Dean took it all in his laid-back way, _"It's just little Sammy havin' a bitch,"_ he thought. But the bitching went on, and on, and on and every time Dean turned around he could see Sam's bitch-face firmly in place.

After a while Dean got angry too, then really angry. There'd been a couple of fierce arguments and even a few little scuffles over silly things like socks.

Despite being annoyed, Dean didn't really have the heart to fight with his brother. " _We've got enough trouble already,"_ he thought and tried not retaliating instead. The only difference was Sam began to consistently get the upper-hand and Dean started to feel he was under constant attack.

Sometimes Sam used rage-fuelled strength to physically get his point across, but usually he just delivered vicious verbal snipes. Gradually the spark of anger left inside Dean flickered and went out, leaving him feeling cold and depressed.

There'd been no need to ask Sam what was bugging him, because Sam was more than ready to share. He had shared; loudly, angrily and all too often. Sam was angry about Stanford, about Jess, about Dad ditching them without a word, about Dean's music, Dean's clothes, the Impala, Dean's food, Dean's voice, Dean drinking, Dean's face, Dean being Dean.

So Dean put on his mask of indifference, hid his hurt feelings from his little brother and got on with day-to-day life just like the good little soldier he was accused of being. _"It's just Sammy havin' a bad few days,"_ he told himself. _"It'll pass soon and things'll be okay again."_

-o-

Dean stopped believing things would be okay after the incident in 'Jilly's Diner'.

It was a beautiful morning; warm, sunny, blue sky, a nice scenic drive through the Smokey Mountain range ahead of them. They wandered into the diner for breakfast. Dean was feeling cautiously happy as he settled himself into a booth, hoping today would be the day Sam cheered up. He was enjoying the smell of bacon and fresh coffee, appreciating the view of the mountains. His mood brightened further as he saw the curvy waitress crossing the diner.

Dean swivelled his leather-clad shoulders in her direction, his intense gaze attracting her attention. A little cheeky twitch of the eyebrow and a slow grin sealed the deal and drew her across to their booth, much to the annoyance of an earlier arrival.

"What can I get you, sugar?" she drawled, pouting, as she stared hungrily at Dean's loose-limbed sprawl on the booth seat.

This was a game Dean excelled at, one he'd been playing since puberty.

"What's on offer, sweetheart?" he growled, enjoying the flush of pink spreading on her cheeks and the mock widening of her eyes as she pretended to be outraged, while still shamelessly fluttering her lashes.

" ** _Dean!_** " Sam's voice was shockingly loud and angry to his brother's ears. "Just order breakfast like a normal person! Nobody wants to put up with this display _every_ morning!"

Everyone in the diner turned abruptly to look at them. Dean's grin melted, a flush of embarrassment spreading up his neck and onto his ears. He stared at his brother, then dropped his head, not wanting Sam to see the hurt he knew must be visible in his eyes.

"Umm… just coffee for me," he muttered quietly to the waitress.

The waitress stared, an icy expression crossing her face as she raised an eyebrow at Sam.

-o-

A pulse of rage throbbed in Sam's temples as he glared at Dean's lowered head; he honestly couldn't understand how he'd put up with that type of behaviour for so long.

"Just cancel that, we're leaving," he snarled, feeling he couldn't bear another moment of the greasy diner smells or the irritation of his brother flirting. All Sam had wanted was a quiet, healthy breakfast. He launched himself out of the booth and towards the diner door.

-o-

Dean hurried after him, throwing a strained smile of apology at the waitress, who was now regarding him with a pitying expression. He caught up with Sam by the Impala.

"What the fuck, Sam!" he started, but Sam was already moving, grabbing Dean by the front of his jacket with his fist and slamming him against the side of the Impala.

"I've had enough. Enough of this…" He waved his free hand at the staring faces in the diner window. "Enough of you!" He pushed at Dean again, before letting go and storming round to the passenger door.

Dean gulped, a little winded but more shocked than anything. After a moment, painfully aware of the staring faces, he took out his keys with shaking hands and got into the Impala, trying to work out just what he'd done that was so bad.

-o-

After that Dean started sleeping poorly, lying awake at night wondering what he'd done wrong.

 _"Maybe it's all my fault,"_ he worried. _"I let Sam down, maybe he wouldn't have gone to college if I was a better brother, I let him leave, I fetched him back, got him back into all of this crap… I should've left him with Jess. And it's my fault Dad isn't here, somehow I fucked up so bad he won't even speak to me…"_

So Dean went quiet, withdrawing into himself, refusing to be drawn by Sam's increasingly antagonistic remarks. He loved his brother, but right now he was starting to dread seeing him. It was not as though he could get away. Sam was right beside him all the time, sleeping in the same room, sitting beside him in the Impala, reminding him with every huff and scowl and sharp remark that he, Dean, was worthless and irritating.

-o-

Now

Right now it seemed Sam was angry about their latest salt'n'burn, about Dean being stupid enough to be thrown against a headstone, about having to hunt in general.

Dean just felt bone-tired, so tired he could hardly think. His back hurt from the collision with the headstone earlier that evening, but he wasn't about to mention it to Sam. His brother was angry enough already. He'd finally stopped ranting for a few minutes and there was no way Dean was going to say anything to set him off again.

He shifted in his seat; the pain in his back was getting worse by the minute and all he really wanted to do was pull the Impala over to the side of the road and lie down somewhere, sleep for a week.

A motel sign flashed past and Dean sighed with relief, earning himself a sharp glare as he turned into the parking lot. Sam stormed off to the reception, returning minutes later to grab his bag without uttering a word. Dean trailed after him to the room, careful not to jar his back as he lugged his duffle inside and dropped it on the bed nearest the door.

Sam curled his lip, "Still sleeping by the door, Dean? I can look after myself you know!"

Dean shrugged, flinching when his back thrummed with pain. "You can have whichever bed you want, Sammy."

"It's Sam! Sam! I'm not some five year old!" Sam's face was suffused with anger again and Dean winced inwardly.

"Sorry," he muttered, not wanting another confrontation.

Sam loomed towards him, "Sorry! You're always sorry Dean! But you've got a lot to be sorry about haven't you?" He grabbed a fistful of Dean's jacket, glaring into his face, then suddenly slammed him back against the wall before storming off to the bathroom. "I'm friggin' sick of your sorry!"

Agony rippled up Dean's back, making his ears buzz and his knees fold. Gracelessly he slid down the wall to a sitting position, glad Sam had shut the bathroom door and couldn't see him. He felt too tired and nauseous to get up, so he just dropped his head back against the wall and shut his eyes, waiting for the room to stop tilting. He could feel a damp stickiness spreading slowly across his back. The injury was bleeding again. He didn't want to ask Sam for help, and decided he didn't care anyway; the bleeding would stop, or not.

When Sam came out of the bathroom, Dean forced his eyelids open. He caught a glimpse of Sam's sneer as he threw himself into bed and turned out the light without a word.

After a while Dean pulled himself slowly upright and shuffled to the bathroom to relieve himself, before dropping wearily face-first and fully clothed onto his bed. He wound his fists into the blanket, clung on desperately to stop himself panicking, feeling overwhelmed with the pain in his back and confusion about Sam's behaviour. He wanted to curl into a ball but his back was too sore. In the end he just lay there listening to Sam's even breathing from the other bed, fighting down a big hard lump of hurt inside him and feeling so lonely and lost he just wanted to cry.

-o-

_Continued in chapter two. Poor Dean. And what on earth is wrong with Sam? Where have the puppy eyes gone, and why?_


	2. Chapter 2

Sam woke and stretched luxuriously. He'd slept well but pangs of hunger were letting him know it was time for some breakfast, so he swung his long legs out of bed and headed for his toothbrush.

He was in the bathroom, splashing cold water on his face, when he remembered the events of the night before and had a sudden flashback to pushing Dean into the wall and leaving him slumped on the floor. Dean hadn't fought back, he realised; that wasn't like him, although lately it had been hard to get a reaction of any kind. Dean seemed to have retreated behind an impenetrable wall as far as emotions were concerned.

" _Somethin' must be wrong,"_ Sam thought, feeling a surge of remorse as he rushed back into the main room.

Relief flooded through him when he saw the dark shape sprawled face-first on the bed. It was replaced almost immediately with anger when he realised Dean was still fully dressed, still wearing his boots. Sam thought it was just another typical example of his brother's decadent behaviour and uncaring attitude. Okay, so he'd been sitting on the floor; most likely he'd been drinking on the quiet and had been too hammered to get up straight away.

Sam stormed towards the door, annoyed at himself for worrying about a lost cause. He hurled Dean's heavy duffle bag across the back of his legs as he passed.

-o-

Dean's head jerked up as he was startled awake from an exhausted sleep. He focussed blearily on Sam.

"You stink," Sam snapped at him from near to the door, "Try gettin' a shower."

The door slammed shut behind him as he left, leaving a ringing silence in the room.

Dean turned painfully sideways. Pure agony flickered down his back as the wound twisted. The additional weight of the heavy duffle across the back of his legs almost defeated him. Eventually, biting his lip, he managed to free his legs and get himself upright. His muscles were stiff and sore as he shuffled slowly into the bathroom, making sure to lock the door behind him; he didn't want Sam bursting in and seeing his back. Any sign of an injury was sure to make his brother even more annoyed.

Dean sighed, wondering how things had changed so much between them. Normally Sam would've been the one who patched him up, made sure he was okay.

Showering proved to be difficult. His t-shirt had stuck to the wound, felt welded to his skin with dried blood. He wasn't precisely sure what was wrong with his back, just remembered it colliding sharply with a headstone during a fight with an angry spirit the evening before. Another routine salt'n'burn that turned out harder that it should have done.

There'd been quite a bit of bleeding, he thought, noticing blood had soaked through two shirts and into the lining of his leather jacket. He pulled carefully at the t-shirt, trying to get it off to see the damage, hoping to clean up the area and apply some antiseptic cream. After the fourth attempt left him dizzy and retching, he decided to just leave it on and shower anyway.

With luck the t-shirt would come loose, failing that, at least the whole area would be a bit cleaner and that would have to do for now. He knew this was a bad idea, but he really didn't want to ask Sam for help. _"Maybe I can get to a clinic later,"_ he thought. _"Can't let Sam know… I'll say I need a drink or somethin', Sam'll find that easy to believe…"_

Given his current run of bad luck, Dean wasn't too surprised when the shower water was freezing in temperature and the t-shirt stayed stuck fast. After a short shower, he dried off as much as he could, pulling a clean black shirt and his leather jacket on over the wet t-shirt. He sat down on his bed, feeling shaky and with that strange drawn feeling in his face that he associated with looking ill and pale.

" _Crap, just in time,"_ he thought, as Sam burst back into the room.

Sam slammed a coffee and a breakfast burrito down onto the grimy table.

"I hope you're ready," he snarled at Dean, "I'm not hangin' around all day while you lie about!"

"I'm good to go," Dean said quietly, trying to keep things low key. He didn't feel up to an argument right now. He gestured vaguely at the burrito, "Is that for me, dude?"

The seemingly innocent question seemed to push Sam over the edge. His nostrils flared, "Of course it's for you, Dean! D'you see anyone else here!"

He glared at Dean and then suddenly snatched up the hot burrito, crushed it in his fist and hurled it across the room. Dean was too surprised to move and the burrito hit him in the cheek, before bursting apart and scattering its contents across the bed.

Dean's jaw dropped. By the time he shut his mouth, Sam was already out of the door, duffle in hand. Bewildered, Dean snatched up his own bag and rushed after him as quickly as he could, leaving the coffee abandoned on the table.

"Sam! Sam, Stop! Whassup? Sam!"

Without warning Sam spun on his heel, dropped his duffle bag on the ground, snatched hold of the front of Dean's jacket with both fists and shook his brother furiously.

Dean was stunned. Over six feet of lean-muscled, combat trained, natural fighting machine had no defence at all against an over-sized and enraged little brother. The years of training to defend himself and his natural instincts to _'never hurt Sammy'_ clashed head on. Instead of reacting he found himself going limp, felt his eyes widening with shock and his teeth rattling as Sam shook him savagely.

"Wha… Uhh… S… Sam!" Dean stuttered; he couldn't believe what was happening to him.

"You're pathetic!" Sam spat the words into his face, letting go of him abruptly and shoving him away.

Dean stumbled backwards; his boots caught on the wooden step of the walkway; already dizzy from blood loss and being shaken, he lost his balance. He landed on his backside, pain lancing up his back as his duffle bag and the Impala keys flew out of his grasp. The duffle burst open, showering random small items across the boards.

Sam scooped up the Impala keys and walked off without a backward glance.

-o-

Dean was on one knee, shakily collecting up items and stuffing them back in his duffle, when he became aware of a wrinkled hand in front of him. It was holding out a crumpled shirt. Looking up, he found the hand was attached to a small and plump elderly lady with a concerned expression on her face. He reached out for the shirt, feeling suddenly exposed. He was sure she could see the hurt and shock in his eyes and had noticed the tremble in his lips, the shake in his fingers.

"Are you alright, dear?" she asked gently.

Dean drew in a sharp breath, found he couldn't answer past the lump in his throat, so just nodded jerkily and carried on cramming things into the duffle.

She passed him a few more items and hovered next to his shoulder. "Is he like that a lot?" she murmured.

Dean met her sympathetic, faded blue eyes and was horrified to feel his own eyes fill up in response. He dragged a hand over his face, looking down and concentrating on the duffle as he climbed to his feet.

"No," he whispered. "He's... uh... just havin' a bad time lately."

She peered up at him, clearly not convinced, then patted him on the arm and said earnestly, "You don't have to put up with that sort of thing, you know? You can always leave, or get some help?"

Some tiny remnant of Dean's four year old self just wanted to take her hand, be led away to be comforted and fed cookies and milk. Dean the adult just wanted to run away and hide.

He pulled back, feeling embarrassed. "No. It's ok. Umm... I gotta go… thanks." He tried to smile but could tell from the expression on her face that it had been a pathetic attempt. But that was about right for him, he thought, pathetic.

He stumbled to the Impala, found himself relegated to the passenger seat, but was too upset to do anything about it. Sam glowered at him and deliberately rubbed the Impala's rims on the way out of the parking lot.

-o-

As he drove Sam felt his rage gradually slipping away, being replaced with a vague feeling of anxiety. He knew something was wrong, but he couldn't pin it down.

Watching the road unfold like an endless strip of ribbon in front of the Impala was hypnotic, seemed to soothe away most of his anger; after a while he glanced across at Dean. His brother was slumped against the passenger door. His face looked pale, the little lines around his mouth and eyes giving the impression that he was upset although his eyes were closed. Sam couldn't tell if he was asleep or not, so he turned back to the road, clenching his fingers on the wheel and fretting.

" _What's wrong_?" he thought, " _What's the matter with me, why do I want to hurt Dean?"_

-o-

_So Sam has started to realise something isn't right… but there are bad days ahead._

_Continued in chapter three…_


	3. Chapter 3

By the time they crossed the state line, Sam's head was pounding. He'd gone over and over the last few weeks in his mind, but he still couldn't answer the question; why was he so angry at Dean?

He pondered, his mood swinging from guilt, to anger at feeling guilty, to rage at his brother for being the cause of the guilt and back to guilt. It was an endless and exhausting loop. The word _bullying_ passed through his mind and left him feeling uncomfortable; he really hated bullies.

As long as he kept his gaze fixed on the road, Sam was perfectly calm. But within seconds of glancing across at his brother he started to feel irritated. It wasn't as though Dean was actually doing anything; he was motionless, eyes closed, his jacket collar pulled up and partially obscuring his pale face. Okay, so he was Sam's big brother and like all big brothers he could be annoying, but right now everything he did and said infuriated Sam and that had never happened before.

Eventually, scared he would lose his temper again if they stayed too long in the close-quarters of the Impala, Sam decided enough was enough and pulled into a motel. It was much earlier than they normally would have stopped for the night.

-o-

Dean didn't comment on the early stop. He hadn't slept at all during the journey, just hoping if he kept his eyes closed he wouldn't cause another confrontation.

He'd spent the first part of the journey trying to calm down. It had proved to be unusually difficult. Admittedly he was tired, exhausted really. His back was hurting and he'd had nothing to eat and only a glass of water from the motel bathroom since the previous noon. But in the life of Dean Winchester that wasn't really all that out of the ordinary. It all contributed to the way he was feeling right now, but it was Sam's behaviour that was really screwing with his mind. Dean was about as far off-balance as he'd ever been in his life; he was really struggling to understand what was going on.

Around midday they'd pulled over for gas and a bathroom break, Dean taking the opportunity to get a strong cup of coffee, although none of the limited range of snacks tempted him. He wasn't given the impression he would be offered the Impala's keys and to be honest his back was too painful to drive anyway. So, coffee finished and back in the Impala, he closed his eyes again and pretended to be asleep. What he was really doing was tearing apart his memories of the last few weeks.

" _When did this start?"_ he asked himself, eventually pinning it down to sometime during the run of easy jobs. He couldn't be more exact; the trouble was it'd started so small, building gradually into a big thing. 'Jilly's Diner' was the first time he'd realised it wasn't just a passing phase, wasn't just Sam having a bad patch.

Dean swallowed against a sudden lump in his throat, _"And what was that about last night?"_ he thought, feeling upset. " _It makes no sense,_ _Sam_ _ **never**_ _does stuff like that. Even if we've been fightin' he'd never just leave me sittin' on the floor. Sure, he'd be pissed at me, but all bossy too, worried."_

He swallowed again, torn, half of him wanting to punch his brother right in the face and the other half wanting to cry. _"And this mornin'… what the_ _ **fuck**_ _was that? I didn't do_ _ **anythin**_ _', I_ _ **know**_ _I didn't do anythin'. He_ _ **shook**_ _me for God's sake, who_ _ **does**_ _that to a grown man! I was so fuckin' embarrassed… I couldn't stop him, it was Sammy, I can't hurt Sammy and he was so pissed and... I feel so_ _ **crap**_ _… maybe, maybe I couldn't have stopped him?"_

For the first time in his life Dean Winchester wondered if perhaps everything wasn't his own fault. It was also the first time it occurred to him that, right now, he felt a bit scared of his little brother.

-o-

When Sam pulled in at the motel, Dean was as relieved to be out of the car as his brother. He lost no time dropping his bag in the room and putting some distance between himself and Sam by taking himself away to the relative safety of the motel reception area. He spent the early evening there, slouched in a lumpy chair, chewing his way half-heartedly through a bag of pretzels and drinking foul coffee out of a polystyrene cup.

His mind was still chewing at the problem. _"It's gettin' worse,"_ he thought. _"I've gotta sort it out._ _ **We've**_ _gotta sort it out. This isn't right. This is_ _ **not**_ _Sam. Either something'has got to him, some spirit or curse or somethin'… or everythin' that's happened, Jess, everythin' since, it's all been too much for him to deal with. Either way, I need to help him; he's my little brother; I need to **be** there for him."_

In the end, he made a decision to tackle the situation head-on, make Sam talk, however angry he got.

" _Tonight isn't the right time,"_ Dean decided. They were both tired now, off-balance after the incident that morning. " _I can't cope with anythin' else today."_ He knew Sam was always more irritable when he was tired. " _I don't want nothin' to happen to make things worse. I'll try and stay outta his way."_

He rubbed his face wearily, made a promise to himself, " _First thing tomorrow though, we'll sit down and try to put things right... if we can just talk about it together I know we'll be able to figure it out."_

Throwing the coffee cup in the trash, Dean realised what he really needed right now was some whisky. In the circumstances, he felt he deserved a strong shot or two.

The motel receptionist pointed him in the direction of a bar. It was some way off; as luck would have it, the Impala wasn't in the parking space outside the room. Assuming that Sam had gone for food, Dean started walking.

In the end, walking carefully because of the pain in his back, it took him nearly thirty minutes to get there. He was less than impressed with the choice of motel, he preferred ones within easy stumbling distance of a bar. He was even less impressed and more than a bit nervous when he strolled towards the entrance of 'Jake's Bar' and found the Impala in the parking lot. Although he always felt a rush of affection and pride for his baby, right now it meant Sam was nearby and the only 'nearby' was the bar.

Dean stood in the parking lot for a few minutes, indecisive, but eventually his need for a drink over-rode his caution. After all, he thought, what could Sam do to him in a public bar? He went inside, located his brother and headed in the opposite direction.

-o-

Sam tensed, sitting forwards in his booth. The incident that morning had scared and confused him; he'd gone for a drink to clear his head and with the intention of giving Dean some space. He thought his brother looked exhausted; maybe he'd get some sleep if Sam was out? He was disappointed when Dean made an appearance in the bar and hoped he'd keep his distance.

Leaning back again, Sam sipped at his beer, keeping his gaze firmly fixed on his brother. Dean had settled on a stool near the far end of the bar, about as far away from Sam as it was reasonably possible to get. His elbows were on the bar, shoulders slumped and head down as he stared moodily at the beer and whisky chaser in front of him. It was hot inside but Dean was still wearing his jacket; in fact Sam couldn't think when he'd last seen him without it.

With Dean at a safe distance, Sam found his irritation stayed in the background and as he relaxed again he started to notice that his brother was not his normal self. Dean Winchester and smoky bars were a natural pairing, but tonight he seemed oddly out of place.

A slender and leggy brunette glided in an enticing manner onto the bar stool alongside Dean. She pushed her bosom in his direction and pouted flirtatiously. Sam waited for his brother's attentive turn, cheekily raised eyebrow and cocky grin… but there was nothing. Instead, Dean muttered something to her that looked suspiciously like "Sorry," and he turned away, presenting her with his shoulder. The brunette tossed her hair, clearly offended and re-joined her friends, casting the occasional waspish glance in the direction of the bar.

The sharp crack of pool balls sounded in the adjoining room. Usually Dean's head would have shot up as he scented the thrill of a possible pool scam and the removal of a wad of dollars from a gullible stranger's wallet. Tonight he just poked wearily at the shot glass with his finger, moving it in small, aimless circles on the bar. The crackle of pure energy that normally surrounded his brother was missing, leaving him just a faded shadow of his vibrant self.

Sam felt a pang of sorrow, found himself suddenly missing the larger-than-life personality he'd grown up with; he suspected the change in Dean's behaviour was his fault. _"Did I do this?"_ he wondered sadly. He slid off his chair, deciding to approach his brother and try to reach out to him somehow. He headed over towards the bar, but oddly the closer he got, the more irritated he became. By the time he was a few strides away he was so angry he just wanted to punch Dean straight off the stool.

Instead he swung away, crossing to the brunette's table with an unpleasant smile on his face.

"No use bothering with him, ladies," he said loudly, waving his hand dismissively in his brother's direction and making sure he caught the attention of the three large and grimy men who had been openly ogling Dean's ass since he arrived at the bar. He smirked, "Pretty boy like that gets his kicks in other ways."

Sam marched out of the bar, swinging the Impala keys in his hand. Inside he was panicking; he couldn't believe what he'd just done, didn't even recognise the voice and words that had come out of his mouth. Controlled by anger, and powerless to stop himself, he drove back to the motel and left Dean to deal with the fallout by himself.

-o-

By the time Sam parked up all his anxiety had evaporated and part of him was overjoyed to find the swipe card for the room didn't work. He swapped it for the correct room card at reception, not bothering to get a replacement one for Dean. He went to bed, happy in the knowledge that, by the time his brother walked back, the reception would be closed; Dean would either have to break in or wait outside until Sam bothered to open the door.

-o-

_**Continued in chapter 4, now posted. Thank you so much for reading.** _


	4. Chapter 4

Dean wasn't sure how long he'd been sitting at the bar before he pushed his whisky away with a resigned sigh. Despite craving the familiar comfort of the harsh burn in his throat, now the liquor was in front of him he just couldn't stomach it. One mouthful of the beer was enough to start his gut rolling and he was ready to give in and call it a night.

He was down off the stool and ready to move before his hunter's instincts finally kicked in; a tingle of danger penetrated the fog of misery clouding his mind. He turned carefully, skin prickling, to find himself face to face with three beefy and unpleasant looking men. The middle one leered at him, licking his bottom lip suggestively.

"Hey there, pretty boy," he drawled.

Dean tensed, his heart starting to race as adrenalin flooded his system. His gaze darted around the room; there was no sign of Sam.

He stared at the man in front of him. "You don't want to do this," he snarled, feeling anger beginning to simmer in his veins.

"May be I do want to do this." The man's voice was oily, his breath rancid in Dean's face. "Looker like you gotta be used to bending over…"

Every bit of the anger and hurt and frustration stored up inside Dean ignited; he lashed out, his fist connecting solidly with the man's nose. The man went down, nose broken and blood spraying and the bar erupted.

For a while Dean held his own, blending years of training and pure fury into a frenzied attack. But the odds were against him. It turned out the men had a few friends, the type who didn't mind joining in when it came to beating a single, if fierce, fighter.

In the end a pool cue shattering across his already injured back was the turning point. Dean slumped to his hands and knees, felt blood trickling down his back; he was pushing himself up off the floor when a heavy work boot smashed down on his left hand. He was still trying to pull his hand free when someone grabbed him by the back of his collar and dragged him out through the doorway. He grabbed hold of the frame with his right hand, trying to control his totter backwards, but the broken-nosed man slammed the door shut on his fingers, immediately snatching it open again and smashing his fist into Dean's stomach.

Winded and off-balance, Dean fell back, landing on his side in the wet dirt and darkness of the parking lot. The light from the bar was abruptly cut off as the door slammed shut. He dragged in a wheezing breath and realised he was not alone.

"You'll pay for that, boy!" The oily voice was right next to him. At the same time his father's words echoed down the years and rang in his head, warning him about the dangers of being almost too good-looking in some of the dangerous places they stayed.

Hands grasped at his arms and shoulders; he was ripped from the floor and hauled violently around the corner of the building, kicking and struggling and trying to bite the fingers grinding into his shoulders.

"Get _off_ me, you bastards! _Get the fuck off_ …"

A fist slammed into Dean's face, cutting off his shouts as his mouth filled with blood. There were still three of them, he realised; cold fear rippled through him as hands pulled his belt free, pawed at his jeans. He went wild with panic, kicking out, managed to land his boot in someone's crotch. He pulled and twisted and kicked until he broke free and then ran for his life, breath sobbing in his throat, absolutely terrified.

Dean ran and ran until the sounds of pursuit fell away, stopped to heave some air into his lungs and ran again, finally realising he was completely lost. Torrential rain was bouncing off the hardtop and he wandered around in the downpour for what seemed like forever, keeping to the shadows and looking for something familiar. He cursed himself, knew he'd left himself unprepared by riding into town with his eyes shut. Basic John Winchester training – " _always be familiar with the area you're operating in_ ". This crap with Sam was screwing everything up.

Eventually, on the verge of collapse and when he'd almost given up hope, he found himself within sight of the motel. He staggered into the parking lot and up the steps to the room door.

Getting the swipe card out of his pocket was a struggle with his damaged hands and when he finally managed, it didn't seem to be working. He tried swiping it again and again, panting and shaking so much with delayed reaction that it was almost impossible to get the card into the slot. There was a dim light on in the room; despite the pain in his hands, he pounded on the door with his fists. No-one came.

"Sammy," he croaked, almost passing out with pain and shock. "Sammy! _Please!_ "

There was no answer and Dean sank to his knees, his forehead resting against the cold, wet door. "Please Sam. Let me in," he whispered.

The skin on his back was shuddering with pain, his fingers were mangled and swollen, every part of him hurt from the fight in the bar and the, _the thing_ that nearly happened in the parking lot. He felt nauseous, left-over adrenalin sloshing around in his veins. After a while he subsided onto his backside and just sat there in the freezing rain, panting in distress, letting his mind fill with white noise.

.

In the end it was the cold that brought him back to himself. Dean became slowly aware that the icy rain had soaked right through to his skin, even his boots felt sodden. He hadn't really noticed how cold it was when he'd been moving, but now, sat on the wet floor like he was, he was freezing. He clenched his jaw, trying to stop his teeth from chattering and hauled himself wearily to his feet.

He tried hammering on the door again but his hands were too painful, so he gave it a few kicks, not having the strength to kick it open. It was a swipe card lock so there was no possibility of picking it; even if there'd been a way, he could barely move his fingers.

He couldn't believe Sam wasn't letting him in, told himself that his brother hadn't heard him, but knew it was a lie.

Finally he remembered the little laundromat and shuffled around the corner of the motel and into its brightly lit, deserted and very welcome warmth.

Dean was soaked and shaking with cold and when he saw the clock on the wall he realised he'd lost a considerable chunk of time. Despite the soaking from the rain, he could still smell the lingering aromas of the bar and the men on his clothes, overlaid with the stink of fresh blood and dirt. His skin crawled; all he wanted was get the smell off himself, so he painfully stripped down to his boxers. It was in the early hours now, the motel had very few guests and the likelihood of anyone coming to do laundry was remote.

There was an old towel by the sink; he wet a corner and carefully cleaned off the worst of the muck, wanting desperately to get into a hot shower and just scrub and scrub until his skin was raw.

Draping the damp towel around his shoulders, he put his boots and sopping leather jacket on top of one of the warm dryers. The rest of his clothes went into a washer, thankfully he had enough small change to tip in a couple of packets of washing soda and have a reasonable chance of getting his clothes clea, and at least mostly dry.

The only good thing to come out of the evening was that the fresh blood and the rain had soaked his back for so long that the shredded t-shirt finally came loose from his wounds. He thrust the garment into the bottom of a bin in disgust and huddled on a hard plastic chair next to the warmth of the machines.

The rest of the night passed slowly. Dawn found him hunched in his damp leather jacket and boots, blearily watching his clothes flipping around in the final drying cycle. He was sore all over and exhausted, just on the wrong side of cold and too wound up to doze. The pulse and drag of fever was setting in underneath the throb of his injuries.

He startled upright when a young woman in flowered PJs and a jacket bounced brightly into the laundromat with an armful of washing. She pulled up short, hand flying immediately to her sleep ruffled hair. "Oh," she gasped, her expression making it clear she had noted his good looks despite the bruising on his face.

"Err…" words failed him and he stared at her, unable to deal with the startling contrast between her pink and flowery appearance and his own dark thoughts. A pink flush crept up her cheeks and in any other circumstances she would have been unbearably cute, but right now Dean couldn't even summon up a smile. He dropped his gaze awkwardly, was saved by the ping of the dryer finishing its cycle.

.

Sam woke, smiling lazily as he planned a long, luxurious shower. The smile faded rapidly, memories of the night before slamming into his mind. He shot upright, horrified.

Dean was not in the room. He vaguely remembered the sound of him banging on the door, pleading to be let in. Sam was already out of bed and hurriedly pulling on his clothes as panic washed through him; his mind raced, _"Oh God, what've I done? Why would I **do** that! Anythin' could've happened when I left the bar! Where __**is**_ _he!"_

When he yanked open the room door, he immediately saw the blood stains around the door handle and drying on the boards outside. A dozen scenarios flitted through his mind, none of them good. "Oh shit! _Dean_!"

Bursting out through the doorway onto the breezeway, he was brought up short by the sight of his brother approaching. Dean's face was battered and bruised and strangely expressionless. He skirted around Sam, heading for the open door.

Acting on instinct, Sam reached out to him and was shocked into stillness when his brother cringed away, a little hurt noise escaping through his lips as he ducked through the doorway. Sam caught a confusing waft of wet leather, blood and washing soda as he followed him into the room.

"Dean!" he said again, but the bathroom door was already shut.

.

Dean, safely locked in the bathroom, sank down onto the toilet lid and shuddered. His face felt frozen into a mask, but somewhere inside he was just screaming and screaming.

.

**_The boys are in a bad place, let's hope there's some comfort for them in the next chapter..._ **


	5. Chapter 5

Sam stared at the closed bathroom door for a few moments, then backed up slowly, feeling almost scared to turn away, as though his brother might suddenly emerge and run off.

He began shoving possessions into his duffle bag. There was none of his usual, careful, folding and packing this time; his mind was too distracted, racing in frantic circles as it went over and over his actions the previous night. The only conclusion he could reach was that he'd deliberately set Dean up and then left him in danger, for no reason at all.

He stuffed in the last pair of socks and dropped his bag by the door. Dean's bag was already there, untouched since their arrival. So, with nothing else left to do but wait, Sam flopped onto the nearest bed with his head in his hands. He was scared of what was happening to him, of what he was doing to his brother; he felt near to tears.

He hadn't managed to get a good look at Dean as he'd ducked past into the room, but it was obvious there'd been a fight. Okay, it wasn't unusual for him to come back after a night out looking the worse-for-wear, but he would normally be full of bravado, a non-stop, _"Stop fussing, Sammy, m'fine. Let me tell ya about this chick, man, she could…"_ This was usually followed by the type of information that left Sam feeling he needed to do some mental-flossing to get rid of the unwanted images floating around in his head. This morning, though, there was something distinctly 'off' about Dean's expression, in the way he was walking.

-o-

Sam became painfully aware that there'd been no sound from the bathroom, no running water, no movement of any kind. After a while he called out, "Hey, dude? Are you okay in there?"

There was no answer, but a few seconds later he heard the door unlock and Dean slipped out quietly and stood aimlessly in the room. His expression was blank, the bruising on his face and his swollen lip showing up clearly against a too-white face. He was standing awkwardly, clearly trying to hide other, concealed, injuries.

Sam found his questions drying up in his throat as he met his brother's empty gaze. The green eyes lingered on his for a moment and then the focus drifted away, settling on something visible only to Dean.

Sam cleared his throat. "Are you okay? You don't look okay, man. What happened last night, when I left the bar?" _"No,"_ he thought, " _After I set you up and left you in the bar…"_

There was no response, not so much as a twitch.

Sam stepped forwards carefully, putting himself in Dean's line of sight. His brother flinched, a brief flicker of panic crossing his face; Sam pulled up short, holding out his hands, palm-up, trying to look as non-threatening as possible.

"Hey, dude, it's alright, I'm not gonna start anything. I just want to talk, that's all."

Dean's eyes slowly focussed on him. "Yeah, talk," he whispered. "We need to talk. Figure things out."

Finding himself nodding encouragingly, Sam backed off and patted the edge of the bed. "Sit down, man, you don't look too good."

"I always look good." It was the expected answer, but delivered without emotion, just empty words.

Dean made no attempt to approach the bed but shuffled awkwardly on the spot, his eyes shifting and then blurted, "So, what's up Sam? 'Cos this ain't you, this **can't** be you?" Despite the phrasing, it was still very much a question.

"I dunno." Sam's answer was blunt, honest. He ran his hand through his hair, feeling bewildered, "I'm not sure. Everythin' seems okay, as normal as it ever gets… then I just get so friggin' angry. I can't control it… I don't realise what I'm doing... I don't **mean** it, any of it…"

His brother was silent for a moment, seemed to be processing, then, "Gotta be something causing it. Is it me? Somethin' I've done?" Dean was looking at him now, desperation in his expression.

Sam shook his head slowly. "No. No, it's not you. It's like something just takes over, but it wants to hurt **you**." He chewed his lip, frowning as he looked inwards. "It's since we were in…"

At last it came back to him, the first time he'd felt the rage.

"Lewiston! Yeah, Lewiston… there's been this rage in my gut since Lewiston. It's all coiled up, kinda like a snake and when it strikes, I can't stop it..." His voice trailed off, a look of surprise crossing his features. Now he'd said it out loud, it was easy to feel the thing there, in his belly, temporarily dormant but ready.

Dean swallowed nervously, his throat muscles jumping, "It there now? This snake thing?"

"Yeah…" Sam could sense it, coiled, waiting.

Dean nodded, "Okay… so I'm here, why ain't you mad now?"

"Are you kidding me?" Sam's voice shot up, making his brother wince. "I can't be angry right now, I'm too worried about you! There's no room for anythin' else! Oh…"

He met Dean's startled stare.

"So…" Dean licked at his dry lips painfully, "So, you're freaked out right now? This thing can't get **past** that?"

Sam nodded, his mind racing.

"Well, why didn't you just say so, Sammy, I'll do my best to keep worryin' ya until we gank the bitch."

Dean tried to smile at him, but didn't quite pull it off. He flopped onto the edge of the bed with a mixture of relief and exhaustion on his face, said slowly, "I figure we're dealing with some sort of possession then, infection maybe? It was just witches in Lewiston, right?"

-o-

Sam recalled there'd been three sisters; they'd thought it was all a bit of fun playing around with spells, until a fourth member joined the coven, put up an altar to some medieval nasty and suddenly things got out of hand. People started getting killed; by the time the Winchesters drove into town the sisters were off witchcraft for life. The brothers caught a brief glimpse of the fourth member as she hauled ass. There'd been civilian casualties to deal with and she'd taken the opportunity to get clear. Although they'd spent a week trying to track her, the trail was cold. They hated leaving loose ends, but eventually they had to move on to the next job.

-o-

Sam felt a surge of hope, surely it couldn't be that simple? Maybe he wasn't going mad after all? "Yeah, witches. The one ran for it, maybe she planted a hex bag? I don't remember getting hit with a curse…"

He turned eagerly to Dean, his voice tapering off as he realised his brother was staring into space again, eyes wide beneath a pained little frown, his nostrils and the corners of his mouth were pinched white. Sam thought he looked like he needed to lie down.

"You stay there," he said softly, "I'm gonna look for hex bags in the duffles, I'll check the Impala later."

Sam knelt down, ripping open his duffle and tipping the contents onto the grimy carpet. After a while Dean joined him anyway, gingerly dropping to one knee by his own bag.

There was no hex bag in Sam's possessions and he was already re-packing when he noticed Dean wasn't actually moving, hadn't even unzipped his own bag; he seemed to have gone into some kind of trance as he stared vacantly at the carpet.

" _He's not looking so good,"_ Sam thought, trying to attract his brother's attention by reaching out and placing a gentle hand on his shoulder.

" **No**! Get _off_ me!"

A shocked yell burst out through Dean's lips as he scrabbled wildly away across the carpet, lurching to his feet. In all their years of hunting, Sam had never seen such a look of undiluted fear on his face before.

" _Oh shit, oh shit… what's up with him_? _"_ Sam leapt up too, his heart beginning to race.

Dean's face had turned ghostly white, a wax of sweat forming as he swayed wildly. Afraid of making him worse by getting too close, Sam quickly swept a chair behind him, nudging the back of his knees with the seat.

"Sit down. Hey! Sit down. You're gonna pass out!"

Dean dropped into the seat, swallowing frantically. Sam pushed the trash can towards him; he was snatching a bottle of water from the mini-fridge when the coil in his belly stirred irritably, _"Why are you bothering with that fool?"_ a voice snarled in his head.

It was silenced immediately by the pang of worry that stabbed into Sam's gut as he turned back to his brother and saw that he'd slumped forwards in the chair, he was panting rapidly and looked really nauseous, a long line of drool stretching down from his open mouth towards the carpet.

"Hey! Hang on, I'm right here." He took hold of Dean's upper arm to steady him, had to dodge a wildly swiping fist and saw his hands properly for the first time that morning.

" _Oh fuck… what happened to his hands..."_ The left one looked badly swollen and bruised; the right was mangled, with a nail hanging by a thread of skin and the crooked bend of a broken finger.

"Whoa, it's me! Breathe, just breathe." Dean's eyelids were fluttering, lips turning almost blue as he gasped for air. _"Wow, he's having a full-on panic attack!"_

"Steady on… Calm down, I've got you…"

Sam tightened his grip and hung on, helpless as the last hint of colour drained rapidly out of Dean's face; his eyes wandered around and then turned back in his head as he flopped suddenly sideways, head rolling. Sam was left staggering, his arms full of heavy brother.

"Dammit… let's get you lying down..." Sam lowered him carefully onto the bed, glad to see the panting was slowing now his brother was unconscious.

Gently he wiped away the sweat and drool. Dean's cheeks felt cold and clammy under his fingertips, but his forehead was suspiciously hot.

" _I've gotta get this damn jacket off, see what he's hiding,"_ he thought. _"This is all_ _ **my**_ _fault! Please, please, just let him be okay."_

He knelt down by the bed, rubbing his brother's arms and stroking his head, softly murmuring reassuring nonsense, getting a good view of the bruises and the split lip. _"That must've been a hell of a punch, lucky he hasn't lost any teeth… has he?"_ He thought Dean would be really pissed if he'd lost a tooth.

-o-

A few minutes later, Dean dragged in a little harsh breath and slowly opened his eyes, his expression was confused.

"Hey," Sam said quietly, "You with me? Take your time… just lie there a bit. Everything's okay." " _No,"_ he thought miserably, _"Everything is most definitely not okay."_

He waited until the shifting eyes settled, finally focussing on him, then offered a sip of water. Dean took it gratefully, not protesting when Sam held the bottle, a sure sign his hands were as painful as they looked.

"I'll get you some ice for those hands," Sam offered, desperate to make things better between them and just get back to the business of caring for his brother. "You can't travel like this, dude, I'll book us another night…"

Dean shuddered violently, lurching up to a sitting position and swinging his legs to the floor.

" **No!** I can't stop here. We gotta go..."

His face crumpled, eyes wide as he stared at Sam. He was rubbing frantically at his arms, almost as though he was trying to wipe away something unpleasant, seemingly oblivious to the pain it must be causing his hands.

"I gotta shower... gotta take a shower."

He shot to his feet and staggered into the bathroom before Sam could stop him. Sam managed to get his foot in the doorway just before the door slammed.

"Leave the door unlocked, I don't want you passing out in there!" He stepped back, closing the door gently. "I'm gonna be right here, just call me if you need anything, okay?"

Dean didn't answer but a few seconds later the shower went on and Sam subsided onto the edge of the bed, shaking in reaction.

-o-

Dean undressed slowly, painfully, then crept gratefully under the cool shower, squirting most of the bottle of shower gel over his head and body. The soapy water stung sharply as it came into contact with his hands and the cuts and bruises from the night before, but it was a small price to pay for feeling cleaner. The wounds on his back were a pulse of agony. Certain that he could smell the beginnings of infection, he turned his back into the spray, trying his best to get it clean.

After a few minutes, feeling too wobbly to stand, he dropped a towel in the bottom of the bath and sat down carefully. No way was he putting his bare backside down on that surface. He pulled his knees up to his chin, just let the water run over him, not caring when it turned cold. Gradually the stinging turned to numbness, his heart began to slow down and the fog of panic receded.

" _Get a grip, get a grip, get a grip,"_ he chanted in his head. _"Just get cleaned up, get away from here, and get rid of this monster that's got its claws into Sammy."_

-o-

Lawrence, Kansas.

"You've gotta help me! Gotta help them! You know what this might mean…" The desperation in the gruff voice pulled at her heart-strings, _"Just like he knew it would…"_ Missouri pursed her lips. "Maybe it's you who should be doing the helping, John Winchester! That's **your** boys out there!"

"You know I can't." The man's big dark eyes were pleading with her, _"Damn those Winchesters and their expressive eyes. One look from under those dark lashes and you're just sucked right in."_

"They can't be told I'm here, it's too dangerous. He's too close." John moved forwards a little, the waves of anxiety coming off him pushing into her space. She had decided already she would help, but had wanted to make him work for it a little, understanding why he kept his distance from his sons, but feeling their pain too, like a dull ache in the back of her mind.

"You want me to bring them here? Try to get this evil out of your Sam?"

He nodded, relaxing a little. "I'll be close by, in the motel… close enough if trouble shows up. Boys won't know I'm here."

"If it's what you're thinking it is, why did it latch on to your Sammy?"

"Who knows why these soul-less sons of bitches do what they do? I've gotta send a message to the boys, got a phone call to make." John looked at her intently, seemed satisfied with what he saw, nodded sharply once and then reversed down her steps, his boots thunking on the boards.

Missouri shook her head, "Don't you be wearing out that charm of yours, John Winchester."

-o-

John strode away. Damn that woman, she always made him feel nervous, inferior somehow. Just knowing she could look right inside his head, it made a man uncomfortable. But he trusted her, trusted her enough to send his boys to her. He wasn't comfortable bringing them to Lawrence, preferred to keep a couple of states away from them, but this was too big, too important. Despite what he'd said to Missouri, he had a suspicion he knew just why it had latched onto Sam.

He flipped his phone open, tapped in a number from memory. After a couple of rings a gruff voice answered, "This had better be good, Winchester!"

-o-

_At last, a little comfort for Dean. Seems it's not just a hex bag after all though…_


	6. Chapter 6

The shower was running for so long that Sam felt sure the water must have gone cold. His suspicions were confirmed when Dean eventually emerged. He was fully dressed and a bit flushed in the face, but something about the way his jaw was tightly clenched gave the impression that his teeth were chattering. Sam suspected from the glassy look in his brother's eyes that the flushed cheeks were probably due more to fever than warmth.

The First Aid kit was already laid out on the bed. As usual Dean was reluctant, but eventually he begrudgingly allowed some treatment on his hands. There wasn't a lot Sam could do, other than tape the broken finger to the next one, apply some antiseptic cream and hand over an ice pack.

"Let me just check your face," he said quietly. What he really wanted to do was see the injuries hidden beneath the jacket, but as his brother was so edgy he decided to start with something small, hoping he could coax him into revealing them a bit at a time.

A careful check with fingertips didn't reveal anything too alarming beneath Dean's hair; apart from the nasty looking lip, the facial injuries were colorful but not overly serious.

"Are your teeth alright, man?" Sam pulled his gaze away from the purpling bruises creeping over the top of Dean's collar and looked into his face, hoping to re-establish some sort of connection.

"M'fine, Sam." His brother shrugged tightly, his body almost rigid with tension as he dropped his chin and broke eye contact.

"Hey…" Sam said softly, "I just want to check that you're okay."

It was clear the jacket was not being removed any time soon.

-o-

John pulled out his cell phone while the first ring was still sounding, squinting at the name in the display. "Yeah. Yeah, Bobby. It's me."

Bobby's voice was gruff in his ear, "First thing, Winchester, just so as you know; I don't like ya. If this was for you, I wouldn't be doin' diddly squat. I'm doin' this for your boys."

The corner of John's mouth pulled down, resigned. He kneaded at the crease between his eyebrows with his free hand. "I know it. Don't need you to like me. Just need your help."

He could hear Bobby breathing through the speaker. There was a snort as he seemed to come to a decision. "Help. There's always some idjit like you comin' to me for help. Send me what ya got, and I'll see what I can do."

"Yeah, I'll do that." The connection was cut before John could thank him. He didn't think his thanks would be welcome anyway. He'd known Bobby Singer for years, but to say they'd parted on bad terms the last time they'd met would be an understatement. John wouldn't have gone to him for help now if it hadn't been his sons involved, but Bobby was the research expert, every hunter knew that and John was relying on Bobby's soft spot for the younger Winchesters.

John sighed, he'd tried so hard to avoid being near the boys and he was getting so close to Mary's killer. Seemed like the fates were against him again. He made up his mind, keyed a text quickly and pushed 'send'.

-o-

Sam was struggling, trying to think of the best way of asking about the cause of the panic attack, when both of their cell phones sounded. Dean didn't move; he seemed to have gone back to staring into space, so Sam flipped open his phone.

"It's a text from Dad!" he said, startled. "He knows somethin' about Lewiston! He says not to do anythin', it's nothin' we've seen before… We've gotta go to Kansas, to Missouri's…"

Sam felt a surge of hope, maybe they weren't alone in this after all, but he wasn't sure if his brother had heard. A little prickle of irritation started inside his belly.

"Dean!" his voice sharpened. "It's a text from **Dad**. He says we have to go and see Missouri. **Now.** Are you even listening to me?"

What was wrong with Dean now, he thought; all that time trying to make contact with Dad and when the man finally texted he wasn't interested enough to read it.

The next swell of anger was unexpectedly sharp and Sam recognised it with horror. He fought against it, grinding his teeth together, but then his voice burst out without his permission, tone now lower and with a vicious snap to it.

"It's Dad! Remember Dean? Your hero. He says we gotta go, so come **on** little soldier, let's get going!"

Feeling himself losing control, Sam knew he had to get out of the room.

"Sorry," he gasped, snatching up the duffle bags and almost running for the door. "Let's just get goin'."

He had an overwhelming urge to shoulder-barge Dean on the way past, but managed to pull back at the last second so the contact was lighter than it would've been. The thing inside him surged with pleasure at his brother's little gasp of pain.

-o-

Dean watched him charge out of the door and followed slowly, pausing at the edge of the parking lot in disbelief.

Sam had thrown their bags into the Impala and was pacing around it. He seemed to be arguing with himself, loudly enough that the man at the next car had shepherded his little family behind the safety of their vehicle. They were watching Sam with alarm as he ranted and waved his arms around wildly.

Dean took a hesitant step forwards. He wanted to go to Missouri's, do what Dad said, but he really didn't want to get into the Impala with Sam. The pain in his back and hands was making him dizzy and a hot, dry pounding had taken root in his head.

His cell phone was ringing for quite a while before he noticed and fumbled it out of his pocket.

"Uh, hullo," his voice sounded funny in his own ears, as though he was listening through water. He could hear Missouri's voice, something about them needing to get on the road and not to waste any time, but he was finding it hard to concentrate, distracted by what was going on before his eyes.

Sam's agitation seemed to have gone up a few gears as he kicked savagely at one of the Impala's tires before rushing to the front; there was a dull pop as he slammed his boot heel into the headlight and glass showered onto the concrete. Not satisfied, he hammered his fist into the hood and then swung around wildly, swearing and holding his hand. Dean was sure his brother's eyes were about to pop out of his head.

 _"Later, Sam…"_ he thought fuzzily, _"When I ain't so dizzy, I am so gonna kick your ass for that."_

A tinny voice was screeching next to him; he looked vaguely at the cell phone, bringing it back to his ear.

"Uh, I gotta go." His voice was slurring, tongue clumsy in his mouth. "We're comin'… err… I'm havin' some… car trouble." He snapped the phone shut and dropped it back in his pocket.

Right now, whether he wanted to be with Sam or not, he needed to get his brother away from the motel before something bad happened and they needed to get to Kansas.

 _"Remember what Sam said in Burkitsville,"_ he told himself. " _If we're gonna see this through, we're gonna do it together. Pull yourself together, Winchester, you're a friggin' hunter. You can't go through life throwin' a hissy fit every time someone grabs your shoulder! That, that thing in the parking lot, it nearly happened, but it **didn't** happen! I'll deal with it later. Sam's in trouble. Now get a grip and let's get this thing done."_

He lifted his chin, fixed on a Dean Winchester Special glare and stomped angrily towards the Impala, doing his best to keep in a straight line.

-o-

Sam turned, rage inside flaring rapidly into fury as he watched his brother walk unsteadily towards him. Words burst out through his lips. "Are you still drunk? You loser! Look at the state of you; can't you even hold your own in a fight now!"

He lifted his fist as Dean came into range, but his brother side-stepped surprisingly rapidly, shooting him a hurt look from under his lowered brows. And, just like that, the rage retreated into the background, unable to withstand the flood of distress Sam felt at his brother's expression.

He leapt backwards, raising his hands, "Dammit, Dean! I'm sorry. Dude, I am so sorry!"

He flapped around, anxious to help, opening the passenger door and dancing about behind his brother, almost herding him towards the seat. "I'll drive… just get in, please." Sam shook the keys nervously, not trusting himself to actually take hold of Dean and help him into the car.

-o-

Dean leant heavily against the side of the Impala, the parking lot was spinning slowly before his eyes and he was completely bewildered, wondering why Sam was prancing around behind him. He managed to keep himself upright until he aligned himself with the open doorway and then dropped painfully into the seat.

 _"What the hell is goin' on?"_ he thought. _"This is friggin' unreal…"_ He couldn't believe the fight with the spirit had only been about 38 hours earlier. The roller-coaster ride of dealing with Sam's emotions was exhausting and a haze of fever was seeping through his head, muddling his thoughts. He ground his teeth, forcibly grounding himself. This was no time to be acting like a chick.

A haunted looking Sam was settling himself into the driver's seat; he looked anxiously across. Dean fixed him with a glare, determining that, for the moment at least, his brother had gone back to being a huge, fussy, Sasquatch.

"Back off, Sam," he growled warningly. He wasn't about to forget the damage to the Impala _. "Soon as my hands are okay,"_ he promised himself, _"I am gonna smack him right in the mouth and he ain't ever gonna get to drive my Baby again!"_

As the Impala pulled away, it swept past the watching family. The expressions on their faces were priceless. If it hadn't been so tragic, Dean thought, it would've been funny.

-o-

_Continued in chapter seven… now posted._


	7. Chapter 7

Sam drove fast, too worried to have much regard for the Impala, or any other person unfortunate enough to be sharing the road with them. All he could think about was getting to Kansas as quickly as possible.

" _Dad knows about Lewiston; he's gonna help us,"_ he kept telling himself, wondering if John would actually be in Lawrence and if he was, how that would go down. It had been a long time since he'd seen his father,and their last parting had been the worst day of Sam's life until Jess died. There'd been a brief conversation on the phone a few weeks earlier that hadn't gone too well and in normal circumstances he would have been dreading the possibility of meeting up with John as much as looking forwards to it. As it was, he just wanted help; he couldn't stand the thought that he might hurt his brother again. Sam wasn't sure what help was waiting for them, but right now he was concentrating on getting to Lawrence without having another outburst.

Kansas was still a good few hours' drive away. The rage was flickering in his gut, but so far he was managing to keep it under control. Every time it started to rise he would look across at Dean, focus for a moment on the bruised face, the mangled hands until an all too familiar pang of worry would douse the flames for a little longer.

The miles flicked by and the sun crept up to its highest point in the sky. It was starting to slip down again when it was swallowed by the towering storm clouds in their path.

-o-

"That man don't deserve those boys, he ain't got no right to treat 'em the way he does." Bobby's voice was harsh in her ear through the phone speaker and Missouri settled herself down at the table with a little sigh.

"Well now, Bobby, seems to me that man got himself a pretty hard deal…"

Bobby interrupted her, "He's ain't the only one got a hard deal! Not everyone ends up carting their kids all around the country, never stopping in one place more'n a month or two."

Her voice was firm, "There's not one of us knows how we're gonna react to tragedy, Bobby Singer and the Lord knows not all of us make the right choices."

He caught the reprimand in her tone, uncomfortably aware he'd made some bad choices himself over the years. He focussed on his feet, propped on the desk in front of him, unwashed and holey socks surrounded by a sea of dirty mugs and dusty books. He sighed, pushed his greasy cap back on his head with one finger, and muttered begrudgingly, "I guess. Anyways, it don't matter. Boys mean the world to me, ya know that."

"I do." Missouri pursed her lips. "I'll be waitin' to hear. You take care of yourself now."

Bobby put the phone down and ran his hand over his face, trying to rub the weariness from his eyes before looking again at his notes.

It seemed the boys had diverted to Lewiston when the trouble there kicked off. Thing was, unbeknown to them, John was already in the area, investigating what looked like demon activity. He was closing in on the coven when the boys breezed in and blew the whole thing apart. Leaving them to clear up the fallout, John had taken off after the fourth member of the coven, capturing her just outside town and getting them both clear of the area before settling in to interrogate her. Finally she'd let slip something about the demon she'd summoned; she'd sneered at John, telling him the demon had infected his sons and his flesh and blood would soon be tearing each other apart.

Bobby had a pretty good idea which demon was involved, but needed to check some facts. Hoping he was mistaken, he speed-dialled John's number.

-o-

When the sickening throb in his back became too intense, Dean turned sideways so it was clear of the seat, his right shoulder pressed into the leather and his back towards Sam. He stared out of the window, thinking that it was never like this in TV re-runs. Starsky and Hutch would have some big fall-out and speed off in the Gran Torino and the next minute they'd be getting out again and saving the world. You never got to see the five hours of uncomfortable silence, trying to avoid eye contact with someone sitting a couple of feet away. Sometimes real life just sucked.

He was starting to drift as the fever gained strength; waves of fire and ice swept through him, leaving him dry-mouthed and sweating one moment and shuddering with cold the next. He knew he was out of it for most of the journey because every time he opened his eyes the light had changed.

At some point he became aware of the sound of the radio, but then a particularly fierce heat raced through his veins and swept him away again; he dropped his burning forehead against the cool glass of the window.

Strange images flickered in his head: Sam smashing the Impala's headlight, Sam tenderly cleaning his broken hands, a burning wendigo spinning and trailing sparks from its fingers, white teeth against a dark beard as his father grinned at him, hands gripping his shoulders, a ceiling dripping fire… He shuddered, leaning into the cold glass, vaguely aware of raindrops sliding past his nose against a backdrop of livid storm clouds. He let his eyelids droop again, feeling the tips of his lashes brushing against the window.

-o-

Sam turned the radio on when the storm clouds appeared on the horizon. It looked like quite a storm front was building and he didn't want to miss any weather updates. They had enough trouble without running head-first into a tornado.

Dean hadn't said a word for hours. After a while he'd turned his back on Sam and curled in on himself; he seemed to be asleep and Sam was glad he was catching up on some rest. He glanced over from time to time, thinking that Dean's muscles would be stiff and wondering if he ought to wake him and get him to change position.

The radio began to crackle as the first lightning flickered; Sam turned the volume right down, switching on the wipers as fat rain drops hit the windshield. After a while he thought he heard a noise from the passenger seat. Dean hadn't moved, but a few seconds later he heard a distressed mumbling and touched his brother's back gently.

"Hey, you okay?"

There was no answer, but Sam could feel the fever heat burning through the leather jacket. His stomach gave a lurch. He cursed, knowing he should have listened to his instincts; he'd known something was wrong with Dean's back. _"Next suitable place,"_ he thought, _"I'm gonna pull over and get a look at what's going on under that friggin' jacket."_

A massive crack of thunder sounded overhead. Dean's head jerked upright; he yelped in pain at the sudden movement and Sam automatically grasped at his shoulder to steady him. He realised immediately it was the wrong move as his brother lurched away from him, his fingers white in the gloom of the car as they scrabbled frantically at the door handle.

"Whoa! **Hey**! Dean!"

" _He's gonna fall out…"_ thought Sam in horror, standing on the brakes, wheels sliding on the rain-slick surface. The door was open as the Impala shuddered to a halt; Sam's hand grasped wildly at the hem of his brother's jacket and missed and Dean dropped out head-first onto the edge of the road.

Sam rammed the Impala into 'park' and leapt around the front of the car. Dean was face down on the verge, trying to push himself up off the grass. The heavens chose that moment to open, a deluge of rain sweeping over them as Sam fell to his knees and helped his brother turn over. There was a new little cut over one eye, blood and rain washing down his pale face. Lightning flashed and Dean's eyes flew wide open, huge and green in the stark light as he shouted something at Sam, but the words were lost in another crack of thunder.

" _Shit,"_ thought Sam, _"Can this get any worse?"_

He reached forward to help, but his brother was up on his elbows, trying to scrabble backwards and yelling words that were whipped away by the wind. Lightning flashed again and Sam caught a glimpse of himself out of the corner of his eye, reflected in the Impala's side panel. He swung to face it and saw himself staring back, his face distorted, overlaid with another, twisted and evil, snarling at him with Sam's own mouth.

"Get out!" he shrieked, slapping himself in the face and clawing at his head.

-o-

Behind him Dean fell back. Chips of gravel stabbed agonisingly into his back; his brother was in front of him, ripping at his hair and trying to claw at the face inside his own. Dean dropped his head back onto the floor, feeling the fever surge madly in his veins. He thought he might be going insane. Rain and tears streamed down his face as he opened his mouth to the sky and began to laugh.

-o-

A huge crack of thunder shocked Sam back to sanity. He realised the wind was rising, taking on a growl of its own and flicking bits of debris into the air. The clouds were so dark now it was like night and he could only just make out Dean lying on his back in the rain. He snatched hold of the front of his brother's jacket and hauled him to his feet, but his legs folded immediately and he toppled into Sam, eyes wild. In the end, desperate to get away, Sam yanked open the rear door and threw his brother onto the back seat. He flopped over sideways, half-lying on the seat; he was making a strange noise and Sam wasn't sure if he was laughing or crying.

Seconds later, doors secured, Sam was back in the driver's seat, gravel spraying up behind them as he floored the accelerator. The storm loomed over them and the Impala surged away from its grasping fingers.

-o-

_Continued in chapter 8, now posted._


	8. Chapter 8

When Dean came back to full awareness, he found himself sprawled across the back seat of the Impala. He was cold and wet and guessed his rain-soaked clothing had cooled his core temperature enough to lower his fever a little. He vaguely remembered Sam bundling him in through the door and driving through the storm. The Impala was moving, so Sam and whatever was in him, must still be driving. Cautiously Dean pulled himself up until he could see his brother in the rear view mirror.

Sam's posture was tense; he was hunched forwards over the wheel and seemed to be concentrating on keeping the Impala on the rain swept road. Dean shivered as cold water seeped down his spine; his teeth rattled involuntarily and Sam's big, worried, hazel eyes fixed on his in the mirror. Thankfully the face seemed to be all Sam. For a moment he wondered if the thing inside his brother had been a fever dream, but then he remembered lying on the grass. _"What was I doin' on the verge?"_ he wondered, having no recollection of getting out of the Impala.

The image of two faces in one and Sam clawing at his own head flitted through Dean's mind; he shuddered, trying to sort through the scenes, sift out fever hallucinations from memories.

He eased himself carefully across the seat and leant up the side window, seeing that at least they seemed to be getting away from the storm. The dark wall of cloud was moving off to their right, still lit from within by fierce flashes of lightning. Sam kept his foot down, getting them well clear, but as some of the pressure of the escape eased, he began to mutter to himself.

Dean watched him carefully in the mirror, saw the moment when his brother's features began to distort. The muttering was increasing in intensity so Dean allowed his hand to drop off the edge of the seat, feeling around until he found a box tucked down in the foot-well under a pile of old towels. Inside was a little surprise he'd purchased a few weeks earlier, put aside, then forgotten about when the crap with Sam kicked off. Normally Sam would have found the box, but lately he'd been too preoccupied with being crazy, or possessed, or whatever.

" _I love ya, Sammy,"_ he thought. _"But there's no way you're gonna keep that monster under control much longer. We gotta get to Lawrence and if you're driving my Baby you're probably gonna end up pranging us into a tree or somethin'."_

The rumble of the Impala covered his movements and he worked the item clear of the box, relieved he'd assembled and tested it the day he bought it. Now, he just needed Sam to stop the car. Remembering the way his brother's anger had been washed away by anxiety in the parking lot that morning, Dean decided to play the sympathy card.

Deliberately pitching his voice to a shaky growl, he raised his eyes to meet Sam's in the mirror, blinked piteously.

"Dude… Hey, Sam, I'm feelin' sick, I'm gonna hurl. Can we stop a minute?" He put a hand over his mouth, making sure his brother could see it and made a loud retching noise.

Sam hit the brakes immediately, pulling the Impala over to the side of the road.

" _Good ole Sammy, that's my boy…"_ he thought sadly _. "I'm sorry, Sam, I really am, but this has gotta stop, man."_

Dean took a deep breath, steeled himself and tasered his brother. Sam let out a high pitched yell and slumped forwards onto the wheel, his body jerking with aftershocks.

-o-

"Winchester here." John's voice was gruff. "What've ya got?"

" **Questions** is what I've got." Bobby's voice was equally harsh. He got right into it, not wanting to make small talk with John; he doubted that John even knew what small talk was, anyway it was an unnecessary waste of time in the hunters' world.

"Ya say your boys are gonna be tearin' each other apart, d'ya know how, and why?"

"I don't know as much as I'd like. Bitch said this demon she'd summoned was old, powerful…"

Bobby interrupted, "Medieval, mebbe?"

"Yeah, I guess. I dunno how it happened, but it infected the boys. She said it would start small, arguments and such like, then things'd get worse, deadly even." John's voice tailed off, he could hear the worry in his voice, knew Singer could hear it too.

"Ya didn't get to see the altar?"

"No."

"Balls! Didn't ya get diddly squat to help ya put a name to this thing?" Bobby's voice rose, incredulous.

John bristled, immediately defensive. "I was busy, Singer, not sitting on my ass drinkin' rotgut! And there **was** somethin'. Bitch was wearing a talisman, this lion-headed man sittin' on a bear."

Bobby sighed, his worst fears confirmed as he glanced down at his 1863 version of the 'Dictionnaire Infernal'.

"Pruflas," he grunted.

"What'd ya say?"

"Pruflas. Medieval demon. Causes discord between folks, can even lead to 'em killing each other. Lotta medieval marriages bit the dust 'cos of old Pruflas. Don't need to be no marriage though, just any two people livin' or workin' in close quarters an' I'm guessin' your boys fit into that category right enough. Folk are more likely to get affected if they've suffered some kinda mental trauma before… yeah, it's gotta be Pruflas."

John sighed, kneading his aching temples. "There's just one thing doesn't fit… seems Sam is affected more'n Dean."

"Well… your Sam has always been more temperamental, but Dean, he ain't the type to take things lyin' down." Bobby's puzzlement was clear in his tone.

"I know it. Thing is, after Lewiston I was tryin' to keep tabs on the boys…"

The first news John had received was from a hunter who'd seen the younger Winchesters in a diner over by the Smokey Mountains. Something had kicked off in the diner and they'd left in a hurry. The hunter had taken great pleasure in telling John that Dean Winchester seemed to have lost his balls. Bobby guessed he'd lived to regret that comment.

So John had put out the word to his contacts and quite by chance the Impala had pulled into a motel owned by one of his few remaining friends. The Winchesters had stayed at Julie Spencer's motel several times when the boys were young. John had helped her out with a poltergeist problem and for a while he'd made a point of stopping in if he was in the area. She'd had a soft spot for the boys and they'd had a soft spot for her milk and cookies.

What had gone down on the morning outside her motel had shocked her and the telling of it had shocked John even more. Try as he might, he couldn't believe his eldest had let Sam put him on his butt without retaliation.

Dean hadn't recognised Julie outside the motel, although she'd talked to him, asked if he was okay, but by all accounts he'd been too upset to recognise anything much. She'd guessed he was ill or hurt or both. Since that morning the worry had been eating a hole in John's gut.

-o-

By the time Sam stopped twitching, Dean had secured him with cable ties as comfortably as possible, thankful they always kept a good supply in the trunk. He pulled Sam across into the passenger seat and lay him on his side. The effort nearly finished him and by the time he dropped into the driver's seat his consciousness was fluttering at the edges. There'd been no possibility of moving Sam to the back seat, besides he wanted his brother where he could see him. He wasn't sure how the tasering would affect Sam, didn't want him vomiting and choking. And he really didn't want the monster in Sam taking control behind him, where he wouldn't know what was happening until it was too late.

In the end he put Sam's head on his thigh, hoped he wouldn't bite, and set off for Lawrence.

They'd only been travelling for about 20 miles when the Impala pinged for fuel. Dean pulled a blanket over his brother and made a brief pit-stop. His clothes had mostly dried by now and he could feel the fever starting to climb again; he took the opportunity to stock up on energy drinks and Tylenol.

As he was heading back to the Impala, he had to give way for a group of college students. It occurred to him that he was only a couple of years older than most of them, but in comparison, in his dirty and ripped clothes, barely able to stand upright and hurting all over, he felt like a rusty old truck giving way to a fleet of brand new, shiny eco cars. Briefly he wondered what his life would have been like if fate had given him a different deal, but he pushed the thought away and dragged himself back to the waiting Impala.

Despite a generous intake of Tylenol and Gatorade, the fever continued to grow, burning hotter and hotter, making the road waver in front of him as he drove.

"S'okay, Baby," Dean muttered, patting the wheel fondly, "I won't let us crash, we'll get Sam sorted and then I'm gonna fix you up."

It occurred to him that this whole pile of crap was turning out to be the hardest fight he'd ever fought.

-o-

Missouri opened the door.

"The boys are on their way," she said, motioning with her head for John to go past her into the house. He slipped inside, a familiar twist of anxiety on his features as he hovered almost deferentially in the hallway. If the man had a hat, she thought, he'd be twisting it in his hands right now.

"It's worse than I thought." The words burst out of him, his eyes fixed on her face, almost as though he could make her have an answer by sheer force of will.

Missouri laid a calming hand on his elbow, steered him towards the kitchen. "We'll sit a while," she said firmly. "Have a nice cup of herb tea, and you can tell me all about it." She was thinking that what John really ought to do was talk to his children.

John stared at her; his expression said he didn't want a nice cup of tea, herb or otherwise, but he allowed her to push him towards the table.

-o-

If anyone had been foolish enough to stop the mud-streaked black Impala and ask the crazed driver where he was, he wouldn't have been able to answer. Dean was on auto-pilot, somehow staying just alert enough to keep the Impala heading along the back roads towards Lawrence. He had no idea how long he'd been driving.

Sam, or rather the thing inside him, was awake and if the words pouring out of Sam's mouth were anything to go by, it was pretty pissed. After a while Dean got sick of hearing it ranting and he dropped an old ripped t-shirt over his brother's head.

He leant forwards, resting his upper arms on the wheel, struggling to keep his head up as his ears filled with the rhythmic sound of his own rushing blood. The road was a straight line in front, flanked on either side by endless acres of corn. Something on the right caught his eye and he turned his head slowly, frowning at the unexpected gloom of a stand of tall, dark fir trees and a patch of night sky amidst the golden corn. The Impala drifted past a small clearing in the trees; two young boys stood with their backs to him; he could hear their shouts of laughter as a glorious trail of fireworks flew up against the dark backdrop of the firs. Dean blinked, feeling a pang of recognition at the scene and the trees were gone as suddenly as they'd appeared.

"Dammit," he whispered, "Stay awake, gotta get Sammy some help."

Betraying him, his eyelids slid down, but shot open again at the sound of a noise in the back seat. He realised the Impala had drifted across the road and swerved back on track before risking a glance over his shoulder.

A 6 year old Sam was giggling in the back seat, a green plastic army man grasped in his chubby fist. He twisted, screeching and trying to tuck his hand behind his back as Dean's youthful fingers prised it from his grasp. "Deean, give it back," he howled.

"No way, Sammy, ya snooze, ya lose." Dean recognised his own, light child's voice, already knew what happened next as he heard the sharp snap of the ashtray lid.

"Deean…"

"M'sorry, Sammy. It's stuck… hey, don't cry, I'll get you another one!"

Dean rubbed at his face, feeling the drag of the splinted finger against his skin. He really needed to lie down.

"It's your fault, you know." Teenaged Sam leant amicably over the back of the bench seat, resting his elbows on the top and peering at Dean from under shaggy bangs.

"Eh?" said Dean, trying to adjust to the multiple versions of his brother.

"College. It's your fault. You could've stopped me, y'know. You need to stop now though."

"What?" Dean squinted at the youthful image of his brother.

Teenaged Sam nodded, a happy expression on his face as he gestured towards the windshield. Dean swung back to face the road, eyes widening in horror as he stood on the brakes and fought the fishtailing Impala. She slid to a halt, the hood just inches away from the woman standing on the centre line.

"Mom?" Dean croaked, throwing open his door and staggering into the road. She smiled at him serenely, the wind tugging gently at the hem of her nightgown, tangling her waves of blonde hair. He stepped forwards, reaching out to her, but his arms passed through thin air and he toppled forwards onto his hands and knees; he stretched to touch her bare feet, but felt only the roughness of asphalt. Dean's eyes filled with tears. "Please," he whispered, "Make it stop, Mom. I just want to go to sleep."

He felt the ghost of a touch on his shoulder, her voice was a breath in his ear. "You're nearly there, Dean. Just take Sam to Lawrence."

He nodded, gritting his teeth as he climbed back to his feet. She was gone. He turned back to the Impala, ignoring the yells of abuse from a passing pick-up truck. Dizzy and panting, he hung onto consciousness, deciding the best way to keep his baby on the road was to aim straight down the middle line. He drove slowly on towards Lawrence.

-o-

Missouri opened the screen door; she could feel the boys were close, but the pictures in her head were confusing. There was a frenzy of anxiety that was clearly Sam, but the image was all mixed and twisted with something old and evil. Dean was more difficult to pin down; any attempt she made to channel him bringing an overwhelming rush of the entire spectrum of emotions, tangled with vivid and bewildering images. After a couple of minutes, she pulled her mind back, feeling her head starting to pound Seconds later she heard the heavy rumble of the Impala approaching.

"They're nearly here," she called back over her shoulder to the dark, brooding presence hovering anxiously behind her curtains. The man was wound so tight, she thought, it was wonder he didn't snap.

-o-

John nodded, the lines around his eyes deepening when the Impala swerved into the drive and rocked to a halt, wheels askew. Even from his position behind the curtain he could make out the popped headlight and the dent in the hood. She'd been driven hard he thought, seeing splashes of mud up her sides and in dirty arcs on the windshield; things must be bad for Dean to drive her in that condition. He fought against his instincts to rush out to his boys. They couldn't know he was here; it wasn't safe for them.

The driver's door swung open and Dean hoisted himself out; there was no sign of his usual lithe grace and alarm bells were already sounding in John's head before he saw the little stagger as his eldest took a couple of shuffling steps towards the porch. He stopped there, looking towards Missouri with a dazed but hopeful expression on his bruised face. John knew his boy; he'd seen him drunk, concussed, ill and injured. When Dean swayed, John was already moving, all his best intentions forgotten as he realised his son was about to go down and go down hard.

He burst through the door, registering the amused quirk to Missouri's lip and pulled up short just before he reached Dean. His boy looked in bad shape, battered and bruised and far too pale, traces of mud on his jacket and torn jeans. Dean was squinting at him, his expression annoyed; he bit his lip slowly and then slurred, "Hey, Dad… was wonderin' when you was gonna show up."

John frowned, puzzled, "You were?" His gaze passed swiftly over the Impala; there was no sign of Sam. "Dean," he said, "Where's your brother?"

A woefully sad expression settled on the features of his eldest. "Aww Dad… m'sorry, I lost Sammy…"

"What?" John stared at him in disbelief. "What d'ya mean..." he broke off, distracted by the sound of a banging sound coming from the Impala, he stepped around Dean and peered in through the driver's window. Sam was lying on the passenger side, trussed like a turkey and with a t-shirt half over his head.

"What the hell!" John spun on his heel, fully prepared to let Dean have a piece of his mind if he couldn't come up with a damn good explanation. To his surprise, Dean was still facing away from him, swaying slightly; John could hear him muttering.

"Wha' was I thinkin', course it wasn't Dad… just seein' things… Dad's not comin'. Why, Dad? What've I done… please Dad… just wanted it to be Dad…"

John stepped back round to face his son, swallowing hard against the lump in his throat. "Hey, kiddo, I'm right here."

He spoke gently, staring intently at Dean and noting the way his son's eyes gradually focussed. A little frown appeared and Dean's hand came up slowly towards John's face, freezing him into stillness as the fingers fumbled clumsily at his cheek, twisting into his beard for a moment and then slipping away. A completely goofy and quite beautiful grin spread across Dean's face. "Dad…"he said, his voice cracking.

John thought he hadn't seen that grin since forever and combined with the ripped jeans and the tiny bits of twig and mud tangled into his son's mussed hair, it made him look all of 15.

"I'm here, son," he said softly, his hands waiting ready when something invisible seemed to scythe through Dean's legs; John caught him under the arms as he dropped.

"I've got ya, son," he whispered, pulling him tight against his chest with one arm and grasping onto the back of his jacket; bending swiftly he slipped his other arm under Dean's knees and scooped him up like a child. His son may have looked 15, he thought, but he sure didn't weigh the same as when he was 15. John could feel the pull in his back muscles, but the pain in his back was nothing compared to the anguish in his heart. He leant back slightly, letting Dean's head roll towards him and settle under his chin. "I've got ya, son," he whispered again, heading into the house.

-o-

As he passed Missouri, she could see the grooves of pain on his face. The man was cracking open, she thought, as though rivers of lava were forcing their way upwards, cutting through to the surface of an ice-coated mountain.


	9. Chapter 9

Moving carefully, John lowered Dean's limp form onto the bed in Missouri's guest bedroom. Seeing the shadow of pain flicker across his son's face as his back made contact with the quilt, John tilted him slightly onto one side and propped him there with a soft pillow. His nose caught the sweet smell of infection as he leant forwards to feel Dean's forehead. _"Dammit Dean, you're burnin' up…"_ he thought, deciding he needed his bag from the truck.

"Just hang on a bit longer, kiddo," he murmured. "I'm gonna get your brother inside, then we'll see what's up with you."

He retreated reluctantly, torn between his need to tend the mud-streaked and deeply unconscious son lying on Missouri's flowered quilt and the urge to get to his youngest, who was still trussed up in the front of the Impala.

Missouri's voice was soft behind him. "I'll watch over him, John. Go get your Sammy."

He nodded, turning abruptly and rushing away down the hallway.

-o-

John decided that as Dean had felt it necessary to actually tie his brother up, it would be safer to approach from the head-end rather than expose himself to long legs that could deliver a painful kick. As soon as he opened the Impala's door he could hear Sam growling.

Cautiously, he pulled away the torn t-shirt that was draped over his son's head, catching his breath and recoiling slightly from the distorted face snarling at him. Although the structure of Sam's face was the same, it was somehow overlaid with other, evil, features. The warm hazel eyes were gone, replaced by darker irises; they were not quite the black eyes that John had come to associate with demons, but they weren't Sam's eyes either. The infection from the Pruflas demon had changed his boy. He wasn't sure what he had become, but he was sure of one thing, right now, Sam was not at home.

John hadn't seen his youngest close up for some time, covertly checking on him from a distance in Palo Alto was one thing, being face-to-face was quite another. This wasn't the way John had seen it going down. Sighing, he reached out to brush Sam's bangs out of his eyes, narrowly avoided being bitten and snatched his hand back.

"It's okay, Sammy," he said. "I'll get it outta there; no demon disease is gonna get the better of a Winchester."

Being careful to stay clear of the snapping teeth, John twisted the t-shirt into a roll and slipped it into Sam's mouth, tying the ends at the back of his head. He made a quick dash to the truck for his first aid kit and slid into the back seat of the Impala. Leaning over the bench seat he was able to give Sam a quick check-over without sustaining injury. Satisfied that his son's pulse was strong, if rather quick, he swiftly injected a tranquiliser. Minutes later he was heading for Missouri's basement cot, Sam slung over one shoulder and the first aid kit hanging round his neck. His back was letting him know it wasn't pleased and he was fast coming to the conclusion that his boys were even more solid than they looked.

-o-

Fortunately, Missouri had prepared the basement cot in advance, predicting it might be useful at some stage if they needed to keep the boys separated.

John secured Sam quickly, making him as comfortable as possible on the cot and ensuring there was nothing in reach he could use to free himself. He was deeply asleep, so John took the opportunity to check him over more thoroughly, noting with surprise the taser marks on his back. He was relieved there seemed to be nothing else physically wrong; Sam had enough problems with the demon infection running through his veins. The sleep would do him good, he thought, using his thumb to smooth the little lines of fatigue that looked so out of place on his son's young face. The tranquiliser should give him at least a few hours of peace and hopefully by the time he woke Bobby would have come up with a solution.

"Hang in there, kiddo. We'll fix this," he promised.

He left water within reach, brushed an anxious kiss onto Sam's forehead and headed for the stairs.

-o-

Dean lay still, his shallow breaths slipping in and out, the only color on his face the flush of fever in his cheeks. Missouri laid the back of her hand against his forehead, the boy was burning up she thought, pulling her hand away again as the physical contact allowed a flood of images to enter her mind.

"Oh my," she whispered. "What in the Lord's name has been goin' on with you two?"

Minutes later, John burst back into the room, the creases of worry on his face a perfect image of the waves of emotion Missouri could feel from the far side of the bed.

"How's Sam doin'?" she asked carefully.

"He's in a bad way… damn demon infection set deep, but he's asleep now; I sedated him. Reckon it'll wait a while longer while I see what's up with Dean. There's not much we can do for Sam anyhow until Singer comes up with somethin'. From what he's found so far, Sam's a danger to Dean but not to himself, probably not to anyone else either, tho' he did try and bite me earlier."

John gave a rueful smile. "Guess even a demon virus knows me and Sammy don't exactly see eye to eye." The smile faded, tension creeping into his voice, "Now let's see what's under this jacket."

-o-

John slowly pulled Dean to a sitting position, propped him against his chest and helped Missouri manoeuvre the jacket away. The black t-shirt underneath was even more tricky, partly stuck as it was to the dried seepage from the wounds. As it came free John could see livid bruises and deep cuts across his son's back; he drew in a sharp breath, regretting it immediately as the smell of infection assaulted his nostrils. He swallowed, fighting for control of his gag reflex and gently laid Dean back down on his side. Every inch of skin he could see was bruised and it was clear his son had been beaten, and beaten well. John guessed that from the look of the marks on Dean's body and face and the state of his hands, it had been a fight involving boots and fists. The injuries to his back were clearly older; they were puffy and leaking pus, with red streaks of blood poisoning raying out from them.

"Dammit, Dean, this shoulda been treated days ago, what were you thinkin'?"

John found it hard to believe his son had remained upright and conscious as long as he had done.

"Missouri…" His voice grated as he glanced up for help, but she was already there, holding out clean rags and a bowl of warm water. He sent her a look of gratitude and started to clean the cuts, carefully squeezing out pus, washing the area and slavering on antiseptic cream.

John had been a hunter for a long time and a combat proven marine before that; he'd patched up all sorts of wounds, many of them his own. It was never pleasant, but he could deal with it better than most. None of that counted now. He shuddered; somehow dealing with his kids' injuries always made him feel sick to the core.

By the time he was finished, Dean's face looked grey and twisted with pain. He'd surfaced briefly, muttering something through dry, white lips, but quickly slipped away again.

The fever was raging, body temperature dangerously high and as soon as he'd finished cleaning and treating the other injuries, John wasted no time in setting up an IV drip containing antibiotics. Missouri had brought most of the contents of her freezer upstairs, wrapping the packages in plastic bags and then old pillow cases. He stripped Dean down to his boxers, arranged the home-made icepacks around him and began sponging his skin with cold water. He noted there were new scars where none had been before and realised with a pang of guilt that they'd obviously been gained while Dean was hunting alone. His thoughts shuttled frantically between Dean's fever and Sam's demon infection.

Missouri, of course, knew what he was thinking.

"I'll take over for a spell," she said. "You go check on your Sammy."

-o-

To John's relief, Sam was sleeping quietly and looked as though he would be for some time. It was a little chilly in the basement, so he tucked a blanket around his son's shoulders.

Relaxed in sleep, Sam looked ridiculously young and innocent despite all the grief of the last few months. John sighed, looking at his youngest with sorrow. He'd been so scared and angry when Sam left for Stanford, but as the months had gone on he'd started to hope that perhaps, after all, Sam was far enough away from his family to be safe. That hope had been destroyed when evil turned up in California and stole Jess's future.

He took the opportunity to make a quick call to Bobby and gave him an update on the situation, before heading back to the bedroom with Bobby's words of warning ringing in his ears. "I've heard rumours, that demon you're chasin', sounds like he's headin' in the direction of Kansas. He gets closer and you're gonna have to make a stand, or run for it, draw him away from your boys."

-o-

As the day ticked its way towards closure, Dean's temperature didn't seem to be reducing, despite the ice packs and the antibiotics. John considered putting him in an ice bath, but was reluctant to get the dressings wet until the antiseptic cream had some time to take effect.

Instead, he joined Missouri, sponging icy water across skin that was so hot and tight it seemed about to split. Dean whimpered, twisting his head away from the cold cloth, frowning. The water slid down his face, puddling in the hollow at the base of his neck, where it formed a little pool that trembled with the force of each rapid heartbeat.

"Come on, son," John whispered. "Hang in there. You're a fighter, don't you go givin' up on me now."

Dean shuddered violently, turning his head and muttering, hands twisting into the quilt beneath him as his dark eyelashes fluttered against his white cheeks; John's heart clenched painfully.

"Stay with me, son." His breath caught painfully, tears squeezing at the corner of his eyes. "Come on, kiddo, you gotta be alright…"

He tipped some ice into fresh water and resumed sponging, whispering calming nonsense as Dean moaned and twisted, bucking away from the cool cloth and panting in his distress.

"Easy there son." John allowed a little snap to enter his voice, hoping Dean would hear it on some level and respond to authority where comfort had failed, but there was no reaction.

Missouri reached forwards and took hold of Dean's wrist. She flinched and frowned, pulling away again. "He's stuck in a fever dream," she said. "He's in a bad place."

John dropped his head into his hands.

"I wish I could help him," he said, feeling again the surge of helplessness he'd felt when the boys were small and sick, when he'd done his best to care for them in some broken-down shed or seedy motel, wishing all the time for his wife's gentle touch and the clean bedding of their lost home.

Missouri laid a gentle hand on his bowed back, trying to give him strength. She could feel his muscles bunched beneath her hands, knew he was close to tears. She'd known John right from the start, remembered clearly the day when a shattered and distraught man had turned up on her doorstep with a silent shadow of a bewildered four year old and a squalling baby. She'd spent weeks talking with him, watched the change come over him as the tears gradually gave way to a cold and determined anger. If there was anyone in the world who understood John Winchester, it was Missouri Moseley.

"Maybe you **can** help," Missouri said. "If you help him rest easy, he'll heal better, maybe break this fever."

"Anythin'," John said fervently. "I'll do anythin'."

Missouri moved her chair around to sit at John's side of the bed. She took a firm grip of his left hand with her right.

"Take a hold of your boy's hand," she said. "Remember, whatever it is that you see, you just keep holdin' on to us."

John nodded, reaching out and placing his free hand over Dean's, working his fingers between his son's and gripping hard. Such a big hand now, he thought, a man's hand, all long bones and rough skin, a far cry from the soft little hand that used to slip trustingly into his grip all those years ago.

"I'm here, son," he said, nodding to Missouri. "Your old man's got ya."

She reached out with her free hand and gripped onto Dean's wrist; immediately John was plunged into darkness, fighting rising panic as he clutched tight to the two hands in his own…

-o-

****

_**Continued in chapter 10... Thank you so much for reading!** _


	10. Chapter 10

John felt dizzy. He blinked, light filtering in as his vision slowly cleared and found himself standing on a dirt track. There was nothing visible on either side or above, just the brown dirt suspended in a grey nothingness. He fought a feeling of vertigo and swallowed hard, forcing himself to concentrate on the anchors on either side of him.

He focused his attention on the feel of Missouri's hand, small and soft against his calloused palm and become aware that she was stood on his left. He curled his toes in his boots, felt the firmness of the track beneath his soles, could see the vapour of his breath in the damp air. Anxiously he tightened his grip on Dean's hand, feeling the bones grinding against his own. At first there was nothing, then a ghost of a figure appeared, standing a little way in front, facing away. The edges of the figure sharpened; it was Dean.

Puzzled, John raised his right hand in front of his face. It was empty, although he could still feel the warmth of Dean's hand in his palm, reality and dream overlapping. It was a weird sensation.

"Son!" John strode forwards, Missouri trotting at his side. When his shoulders were level with Dean's, he stopped, turned to look at him. His son's face was set in a tight frown, mouth pinched at the corners. He was staring up the track and John faced forwards again to follow his gaze.

At first there was nothing to see, but then images flickered into life on either side of the track. Dean stepped forwards and John walked with him, not sure if Dean was aware of his presence or not. They passed a girl, a woman really, thought John, young and beautiful and intense, a cloud of hair curling around her naked shoulders as she reclined elegantly on a wooden framed bed. _"Cassie,"_ thought Dean and John and Missouri heard him. The emotion arrived a split-second later and John was startled at the trust and love pouring from his son, felt the shock of betrayal when the woman's expression hardened into disgust. The depth of the pain was unexpected and he glanced at Dean in surprise, saw the little unintentional head motion his son made when he was tucking something down deep inside, out of sight.

Cassie was gone as suddenly as she had appeared, replaced immediately with a face that tore John's heart with sharp talons. _"Mary…"_ he thought, stricken, despite the wave of happiness that flooded through Dean. It was just her face, large in the memories of a four year old, a mirror-image on both sides of the track. Dean reached out as he walked by, running his hand through the waves of blonde hair and smiling the open smile of a child. _"Mommy,"_ his thoughts whispered.

The tall flames jetting suddenly upwards on either side blistered John's skin; he cowered down, mind reeling with his own anguish and the sharp spike of horror from his son. The image of Mary's face twisted, melting in the flames. John felt terror beside him; he remembered Dean was in the nursery doorway that night, but had never realised before just how much his boy had seen. Dean was shaking, eyes huge; he seemed unable to move. John grabbed his forearm and dragged him forwards, hearing the terrified howling of a young child in his mind, a howling that didn't form part of his memories from that nightmare of flame, but must have been locked in the mind of his tiny child.

Beyond the flames the track was darker, as though the light in this place was partly extinguished; sharp flints appeared on the surface and and John felt the jab of them through his boots.

Unexpectedly the next scene was full of a golden light, although none spilled onto their path. A baby Sam gurgled and chuckled, and John's eyes filled with tears at the rush of love and loyalty and affection that flooded through him from Dean. Before their eyes Sam grew at breakneck speed, turning swiftly into the Sam that walked out of the door and headed for California. The pain was shocking. John's own memories clawed at him, but the anguish from Dean was beyond belief, all twisted up with betrayal and a terrible fear of having no purpose, being not important enough for anyone to really care if he lived or died.

" _No…"_ John insisted, the words silent however hard he shouted. _"How can you think that?"_ He'd known Dean was hurt when Sam left, hurt by the way John had behaved. He'd seen the changes in his boy in the months after that fateful day, but nothing, ever, could have prepared him for the devastating impact of that moment on his eldest, for the memory of the terrible dragging weariness of every day after, with Dean struggling to simply breathe with a vital part of him missing.

Scenes flickered before them, images arriving and disappearing at increasing speed. John and Missouri were pulled along, hurtling from one vivid memory to another, emotions crashing over them: a snarling black dog, Sam laughing, the Impala shining in the sunlight, Jess burning, a headless ghost, a cell phone full of unanswered messages, whisky, a dark haired girl behind a bar, blood, blonde hair beneath Dean's hands on the back seat of the Impala, fire, white bone, fear, loneliness, anger, sorrow, John driving away in his truck, loss, a smoking shotgun, love and pain, Sam's face snarling, despair... the roll of images slowed suddenly, a feeling of stark terror slipping over them as they stared into a dark parking lot outside a bar.

John heard a muffled sound next to him, had a distinct feeling that Dean wanted to hide this from him. _"I'm here, son,_ " he said and found his voice was audible. For the first time he felt his boy's fingers move outside of the dream, squeezing hard against his own. The image juddered and he could make out three jeering and angry faces, the memory suddenly so intense he actually felt the grasping hands.

 _ **"No!"** _ The words were wrung from them both at the same time, as waves of fear and shame crashed over them. Dean's eyes were haunted. _"I'm sorry..."_ he whispered brokenly, trying to pull free from John's grip. John hung on. _"No,"_ he insisted. _"It was nothing **you** did! It wasn't **your** fault. You don't have to hide that from **me**! I'm not that bad a father, am I?"_ The image faded, replaced by a memory of kneeling in the rain before a locked door, then lightning, storm clouds, heat, pain, exhaustion... heat.

John felt himself becoming lost, swirled away by red clouds of burning fever. Just ahead of them the track disappeared into shadow and darkness.

" _If I just die, everyone'll be better off."_ The words shocked him, grounded him and he staggered as he realized the shadow ahead was death. He could tell from Dean's stance that he was about to sprint, straight into the darkness.

 **" _No!"_** John roared, throwing himself in front of his son, Missouri moving with him.

Dean was crying, crystal clear tears from vivid emerald green eyes in the strange half-light; he tried to step around them but John used his body, blocking his way. He felt Missouri transfer her grip from his hand to his belt and reached out, throwing his arms around his boy and pulling him close, the short-cropped hair at the back of Dean's head smooth against his fingers.

_"No! Don't you **do** that, you come back with me. **Now**! D'ya hear me? I can't lose you too. You're my boys, there's **nothin'** left without you."_

There was a moment's struggle, Dean pushing against him and John forcing him backwards, then something in Dean seemed to let go and his muscles went loose. John hung on tight, feeling the tremble in the body leant up against him. Missouri pulled them backwards by his belt and he found himself sat on the chair by the bed, Dean folded into his arms. He ran his fingers through the spiky hair brushing against his chin, felt it was wet with the sweat of a breaking fever and discovered he was crying.

"I promise, son, whatever I have to do, I ain't gonna let you down again... dammit, I'd die for you boys, don't you know that?"

-o-

John dragged his fingers down his jaw, scrubbing over his wiry beard and tried to concentrate on Bobby's voice in his ear. He felt drained.

"Are you listenin' to me, Winchester."

"M'sorry," he muttered, shocking Bobby, who never thought he'd hear the day when John Winchester apologised, least of all to him.

"Everythin' okay there?" Bobby questioned in a suspicious tone.

"Uh, yeah, tough day. Sorry…" John surprised himself when the word dropped out again. "Dammit!" he added more forcefully.

Bobby decided to ride on over it, listening attentively as John brought him up to date.

"What I ain't gettin' is why this demon virus infected Sam so bad, but don't seem to have had no effect on Dean?"

John sighed. "Sam, he can be pretty hot-headed, takes after me that way. P'rhaps he was just naturally more susceptible?"

"I can see that. Him being kinda raw emotionally with Jess being so recent."

"Yeah." John suspected he might still be just as susceptible himself, even with all the years since Mary's passing.

Bobby ploughed on over the silence. "But Dean, he ain't one to just let things go, not some of things we've been hearin' about."

The residue of emotions from the fever dream stirred in John's mind. "But this is Sam we're talking about here. Dean, he's kinda hard-wired to protect him. Reckon he's let it go on account of it being Sammy."

"Yeah… maybe that's why the friggin' virus never infected him in the first place."

John thought Bobby probably had the measure of it. "Your research turned up any cure yet?"

"Nothin' specific. Seems back in the day folk either near as dammit killed each other, or just got over it. Kinda love conquers all, or some such bull. I'll keep lookin'. Thing is though, I ain't sure what other effects this virus has. It ain't like Sam is possessed, he ain't on the demon network as such, but I'm wonderin' if old Pruflas and maybe other demons, can communicate with him while he's under the influence?"

"You think yeller eyes is trackin' me?" Alarm bells were sounding in John's head.

"It's a possibility. Was I you, I'd be keepin' out of Sam's sight."

"He's already seen me, Bobby."

"Yeah, and that can't be helped. Wouldn't hurt if the demons thought you'd moved on though, it's not as though that'd surprise 'em any."

John knew that was true.

-o-

The first thing Sam saw when he awoke was Missouri Moseley, asleep in a wing-backed chair in what looked like her basement.

He sat up cautiously, flinching from a sharp stinging on his back. He was puzzling about the aches in his muscles when he realised he was handcuffed to the cot frame. They'd made it to Lawrence then; he had no recollection of events after driving through the storm, with Dean delirious on the back seat.

"Missouri?" his voice was harsh from lack of use and he was reaching for the water when her eyes opened. She stared at him for a moment, then smiled.

"It's good to see you back, Sam. How you feelin'?"

He shrugged. "A bit sore, I guess. Where's Dean? Is he okay?"

"Oh, don't you be worryin' yourself none about him. He's restin', feelin' much better than when you both turned up on my doorstep."

Sam drank deeply, relieved. "I nearly killed him," he said remorsefully.

"Wasn't you, it was a demon virus. Now you stay still and I'll go fix you somethin' to eat. I'm sorry you're tied up like this honey, but I can't risk you comin' into contact with your brother. He ain't up to it right now and I'm thinkin' you just might be able to keep control of that virus if you're apart."

Sam hunted through his memories, guessed it might be the truth. He nodded, swinging his legs to the floor and scrubbing his eyes with his palms. He felt physically sick with remorse; it must have shown in his face and he grabbed gratefully at the trash can Missouri held out to him, hugging it to his chest.

"How am I ever gonna put this right?"

"We're tryin' to find a cure…" She was looking at him with pity; he guessed she could feel his desperation, how helpless he felt. She seemed to come to a decision. "While you're yourself, might be you can help? I've been hearin' you're real good at research?"

He looked up at her, surprised and grateful to be given that much.

"I'll find a cure," he promised earnestly. "I've gotta defeat this thing, try and make it up to Dean."

Even as he said it, he felt his stomach clench and he retched suddenly, heaving hard until he brought up a mouthful of vileness. They both stared in surprise at the black gunge at the bottom of the trash can.

-o-

_**Continued in chapter 11…** _


	11. Chapter 11

Sam was tucking into his bowl of stew before Missouri had even put the plate of dessert pie down on the table. She was glad she'd made extra, it was just after 1 am, but he was clearly starving. He smiled gratefully up at her, peering through his floppy brown hair and shovelling stew into his mouth with a plastic spoon.

He looked better for the rest, she thought, but the little lines of anxiety were still stretched across his skin.

"Is Dad here?" he asked suddenly, his big hazel eyes full of nervous hope.

She hated lying to him, but knew it had to be done.

"He can't be around you boys right now. It's too dangerous."

Emotions chased quickly over his features, anger, sorrow, a little relief. "Yeah. Right. Can't be here. What a surprise that is."

He bent back to the stew, allowing his hair to fall over his eyes, shutting himself off from her view.

" _Poor boys,"_ she thought. _"All three of 'em so messed up."_

"Your Daddy, he's lookin' out for you."

He huffed in disbelief, putting the spoon down in the empty dish. His attention was drawn to the laptop she'd set up on the corner of the table.

"I'm gonna go check on your brother," she said. He nodded, looked a little wistfully at the stairs.

"Best you don't see him," she added firmly.

"I know." His eyes flitted again to the laptop and she left him to it, glancing back once through the little gap at the top of the stairs. The lid was already raised and his fingers were jabbing at the keyboard, pie pushed to one side and momentarily forgotten.

-o-

John was waiting anxiously in the bedroom, slouched untidily on her window seat.

"Sam's okay," she reassured him. "He's eatin' stew and researching."

John smiled a little at that, Sam had always been the best out of the three of them at research.

"Wish I could see him, try and put things right between us..." his voice trailed off. He took a swig of coffee, dumped his mug on the nightstand and stared moodily out into the night. Dark clouds were scudding over the moon, driven by a stormy wind that rattled the old window frames and flicked raindrops audibly against the glass.

She felt Dean's forehead, glad his temperature seemed almost normal now. The images flowing into her mind told her that he was dreaming, something about burgers and the Impala, but the nightmarish hue was gone. She pulled away, straightened the sheet.

The shrill call of John's cell phone sounded, breaking the silence. He flipped it open, frowning at the display.

"Winchester."

Suddenly he was very still, his dark brows lowering as he grunted into the phone. "Already? How close is he?"

There was a pause, the color drained out of his face, leaving his tan like a dirty stain over grey putty. "Yeah… I'll draw him away. Yeah, I'm outta here. Er… Bobby, thanks."

The phone was back in his pocket and he was on his feet in one smooth move.

"I gotta go."

"I know." She stared at him intently. "He's close then, you're gonna hunt him?"

John's mouth twisted. "Right now, he's huntin' me. I can't stay here, he's trackin' me and if he finds me he'll find the boys. Now ain't the time for a showdown, I'll draw him away. I won't be able to get in touch with 'em again until I've thrown him off the scent. You'll…?"

"Course, I'll do my best for those boys, you know it."

He nodded. "I haven't thanked you."

"No need. Times like these, folk have to help each other."

"Yeah… even so, I owe you. Anythin' you need, ever…"

"I'll call." She motioned to the door. "Now get goin'. Get this demon away from here, away from your boys."

He stepped forwards quickly, staring sadly down at Dean, seemed to be absorbing as much as he could, as though he was afraid it might be the last time he laid eyes on him.

"M' sorry." He whispered, running a roughened finger gently down the back of his son's hand.

Dean shifted restlessly, murmuring, and John leant forwards, saying something in a gruff tone too low for Missouri to make out the words. He ran his fingers lightly through Dean's hair, pressed a kiss onto his forehead and pulled away, his face twisted as he gazed at her.

"He's getting' close to the surface," Missouri warned. Still he paused, torn.

"John Winchester, if you're gonna go, get going! If you're gonna stay then sit yourself down. Boy will be awake any second now!"

John stepped back, anguish in his deep brown eyes. "You'll take care of them?"

"You don't have to ask," Missouri's voice was firm. "Now get going. And take care of yourself, you hear?"

He ducked his head, almost vibrating with conflicting emotions. "I'll be in touch when I can."

She sighed sadly as John shut the door quietly. "Ain't nobody tortures them self like you, John Winchester."

There was the quiet click of the basement door opening, and then shortly after the sound of it closing. Seconds later his truck grumbled into life and roared out of the driveway.

The room seemed suddenly quiet and somehow empty. A little sigh came from the bed behind her and she turned to meet a pair of bright green eyes.

"Dad?" Dean croaked, hope in his voice. He made as if to roll onto his back, was stilled by Missouri's hand on his arm.

"Oh, honey, I'm sorry. He ain't here. You must've been dreamin'."

"But Dad _was_ here…" His voice was hoarse, hopeful.

"No. That must've been a fever dream you were havin'. Now you take it easy, you hear. Don't want to be opening those wounds again."

Even as she said it, watching the hope fade out of his face, Missouri despised herself for the deception. She turned her face away, patting at the blankets, unable to face the disappointment in his eyes. "Poor child," she muttered under her breath.

-o-

Bobby knuckled his eyes, sighing. Wearily he reached for the whisky bottle, pouring himself a generous finger or three into a tooth mug. _"Time was I had whisky to help me sleep,"_ he thought. _"Now I drink the damn stuff to keep me awake."_

He leant back in the chair, poking morosely at the stuffing escaping from the arm. His gaze wandered around the room as he wondered just when his life had turned into this existence on the fringes of civilisation. Bobby Singer, scruffy, harmless, drunk, just an ageing mechanic to his neighbours, who knew nothing of his other life lived in the shadows where monsters dwelled. Sometimes he just felt so lonely, so useless. Then some hunter or other would call and only Bobby would have the answer, buried somewhere in his impressive collection of research. It was a reason for living, brought him a certain grim satisfaction. There hadn't been much light in his life since Karen's passing, but most of what there had been was due to the young Winchesters. Those boys needed his help now and Bobby was more than happy to devote a few sleepless nights to poring over old tomes.

He drained the whisky, poured another, rubbed a finger over the crisp greasiness of the medieval parchment in front of him. "Well, Monk Edmond," he muttered, "Most of what you say sounds like a pile of superstitious bull crap, but you just might have somethin' here…"

Monk Edmond, several centuries earlier, had spent a substantial length of time covering a costly piece of parchment with an ornate and illustrated account of his ponderings on life. Bobby thought he'd had a few too many ponderings, but the one that caught his eye related to local villagers afflicted by the curse of the demon Pruflas. The monk advocated prayer to Saint Dymphna, patron saint of those afflicted by mental and emotional illness and went on to scribe at length about the healing powers of remorse and love cleansing and washing away evil.

Bobby had an idea forming at the back of his mind and at this point he was ready to try anything. He reached for the telephone and dialled Missouri's number. It was 3 am but he knew she would be waiting for his call.

-o-

Sam was head down, immersed in research, when he was interrupted by the shrill ringing of the telephone in the hallway above the basement. He could hear Missouri's voice, but couldn't make out the words. A few minutes later, the stairs up to the bedrooms creaked. Sam sighed, disappointed, he'd had been hoping for news about Dean.

It was typical John hadn't turned up he thought, not sure if he felt more angry or disappointed or relieved. He settled on angry, mainly on Dean's behalf, knowing how hurt his brother must have been to find their Dad hadn't made the effort, again.

Sam could feel his head starting to pound, his eyes tired already with the after effects of the tranquiliser. He flopped back on the bed, rubbing at his temples, mind drifting as he let his eyelids slide closed.

-o-

John drove like a man possessed, heading north out of Lawrence in the direction of Nebraska. If Bobby's intelligence was right and he had no reason to doubt its validity, he would run into the demons about fifty miles north of Lawrence. Once he had their attention he would draw them after him, further north, back into Nebraska and beyond.

In the end he almost literally ran into them, when a pick-up travelling south suddenly swung across the central reservation and careered towards him. As he swerved frantically around its bulk, the beam from his headlights swung across demon eyes staring at him from the cab. John straightened his truck and floored the gas pedal, smiling grimly when he saw the headlights following. The chase was on.

-o-

_**Concluded in chapter 12…** _


	12. Chapter 12

John kept a heavy foot on the gas pedal, the GMC thundering along. A glance in the rear view mirror showed the headlights behind him were keeping their position. As he sped past the next slip road the reason became clear, as more vehicles surged forwards to join the chase. They spread out across the road behind, an unbroken wall of bright lights. Normally he would be looking to turn off, lose his pursuers on some back road somewhere; tonight he just kept going, every mile drew the demons further away from his family.

A set of headlights detached themselves from the wall of light, closing on him quickly. John could make out the low-slung shape of a sports car as it shot past him, caught the throaty growl from its tail pipe. The car swerved from side to side in his path, forcing him to brake and manoeuvre, allowing the wall of light behind him to gain ground. Not wanting to be surrounded, John gripped the wheel hard and rammed the GMC into the rear of the sports car, sending it slewing wildly into the verge.

He floored the gas pedal, but his surge forwards was short-lived as a truck roared up the next slip road, tires smoking in his headlights as it lurched sideways and came to a halt, blocking the road from side to side. John stood on the brakes, wrenching the wheel and ended up sliding sideways into the trailer; the GMC crunched along its length with a rending scream of metal, showering glass onto him as it came to a standstill.

He raised his head, dazed and spitting blood out of his mouth, realised a demon was clawing at the door handle of the truck. John released the catch and kicked the door open as hard as he could, sending the demon flying. He slammed the door again, grabbed his machete and threw himself out through the broken windshield, scrambled up onto the roof, turning to behead a female rushing up behind him. He hadn't found a way to kill them yet, but you sure as hell could slow them down.

The remaining three demons closed in warily. John did a quick count of the vehicles abandoned across the road and realised, too late, that one driver was missing. He was smashed hard into the roof of the GMC, feeling ribs crack, as the truck driver leapt onto him from the top of the trailer. He struggled frantically against the hands wrapping around his throat, his vision blurring, managed to get the machete out from under him and struck viciously upwards. The force of the blow threw the demon down from the roof as, lungs burning in agony, John rolled backwards, dropping down onto the pick-up back and staggering to his feet, still trying to breath. He took two quick steps, swung his boot under the chin of the demon coming up over the tailgate and drove the machete into the chest of another, before dropping down to the road surface and wrenching open the tailgate.

He fumbled inside, back-kicking desperately at a demon and felt a rush of relief as his fingers found the cold metal of the large jerry can. He swung around with it clasped to his chest. All the demons except the headless one were upright, closing in on him. They were smirking, taking their time, knew he was easy meat now.

"Not so fast there, boys." John smiled, yanked the pins out of the grenades attached to the jerry can full of holy water, launched it at the demons and dived for cover.

Seconds later, deafened, covered in blood, not all of it his own, struggling to breathe with his broken ribs, John Winchester was back behind the wheel and heading for the hills.

-o-

0730 hrs

Sam was still asleep when Missouri took his tray of breakfast down to the basement. Asleep but not resting. He was muttering to himself and shifting around restlessly, the distortion of the virus rippling across his features. She set the tray down quietly and sat down to wait.

Just a few minutes later, Sam's movements stilled, the distortion in his face melting away to be replaced by an expression of misery. He sat up suddenly, a shout dying on his lips as he saw her in the chair.

"Dean?" he questioned immediately. "Is he okay?"

His eyes were wide, fearful and as she watched a dark, oily tear slipped down his cheek. His mouth twisted in remembered pain. "I was dreaming. He… he was dead…" A second tear joined the first, leaving a trail of dark slime down his face.

Missouri took a deep breath. "Sam, honey, I am so sorry. Your brother, he ain't doin' so good."

He stared at her in horror. "What d'you mean? Not so good?"

"The infection from his wounds was pretty bad. There was only so much I could do. His fever, it was burnin' him up. I had to call the paramedics, Sam. They rushed him straight off to the hospital."

His breath caught on a sob, dark tears flowing freely as he wrapped his arms around his middle, rocking forwards in his distress.

"No…" he whispered. "It's all my fault. I made this happen. Is he gonna be okay? Please let him be okay…"

Black oil began to drip from his nostrils. Missouri ploughed on, knowing how much she was hurting him.

"He wasn't lookin' too good to me, Sam."

"But you're a psychic! You must know if he's gonna be okay!" He was desperate, grasping at straws, oblivious to the gunge running down his face.

"Honey, I'm sorry, but there's somethin' else I gotta tell you. When they was takin' him off, I took a hold of his hand, tellin' him not to worry, tryin' to get a readin' from him."

His breath hitched; he stared at her with a frantic look on his face. "And?" It was more a gasp than a word.

"I couldn't see nothin', Sam. Just a dark shadow over everythin'. I couldn't see past it."

Sam crumpled to his knees as the meaning of her words sunk in, shock draining the color from his face. "No," he moaned, clutching at his stomach as though it hurt. "No! Dean! Oh please, Dean! I can't do this without you…"

Her heart broke for him as she fought against her instincts to give comfort.

He retched harshly, bending forwards until his forehead was nearly touching the ground. Dark liquid gushed from his mouth as he vomited uncontrollably onto the floor.

When the spasms showed signs of slowing down, Missouri stepped forwards. "It's all your fault, Sam," she said, despising herself, "Dean is gonna die, and it's all your fault."

He whimpered, heaving violently again, but bringing up only bile. He toppled slowly onto his side, hair sticking to his wet face as sobs wracked his frame, crying his heartbreak into the basement floor. After a while, Missouri could see the tears were paler, then at last clear.

"Sam!" she said loudly, holding a photo in front of him, taken from his wallet earlier. Sam took it with trembling hands, touched it with one shaking finger.

"Dean…" The tears and snot on his face were still clear, his expression tortured.

Missouri allowed herself to relax a little. She handed Sam a towel.

"Honey," she said, "I think I have some explainin' to do."

-o-

Earlier that morning

The early hours telephone conversation with Bobby had given Missouri interesting food for thought. Her mind had thrashed over his findings. Monk Edmond had tried prayer, but with limited success. Mainly it seemed to bolster the strength of the devout, but did little for the less devout. Holy water, exorcism and holy ground had no effect, the learned monk concluding this was because the victim had succumbed to a demon infection rather than a possession. This was no surprise to Missouri, whose dessert pie was baked in a dish blessed by her local preacher and whose stew had been made with holy water.

Bobby had made a suggestion and she'd pondered the possible outcomes for some time. She didn't like the plan, but couldn't come up with anything better. Eventually, deciding the risk was worth it, she settled down on the window seat and dozed.

Dean woke just after 6 am, Missouri alert as soon as she heard him stir. The stormy night had given way to a wet and miserable morning, but the sight of a little natural color back in his cheeks was better than any sunny morning.

She greeted him gently, watching sleep slowly slip away from his expression. He was feeling much better, he reassured her and "Yeah, I am kinda hungry." The last delivered in a slightly surprised voice.

He proved this was true, demolishing a waffle, buttered eggs and a glass of orange juice in record time. She refused his request for coffee, doling out a selection of pills and a glass of water instead.

"Before you take those," she said, settling next to him, "There's somethin' we have to talk about. There might be a way to help Sam, but it ain't pleasant and it ain't gonna be easy on him."

Dean wasn't happy, but eventually he'd grudgingly agreed to the deception and Missouri had set off with Sam's breakfast tray.

-o-

Early evening

Sam straightened up as he heard voices in the hallway above the basement. Missouri's warm lilting voice was followed by the unmistakeable growling rumble of his brother. Sometimes he wondered if Dean, who had an unnervingly close connection to his car, was actually trying to sound like the Impala.

It was the first real proof he'd had that Dean was actually okay, or at least okay enough to be upright and talking. The relief was overwhelming. He couldn't hate Missouri for what she'd done, but he felt emotionally exhausted, still strangely tearful, although he knew it had all been a lie.

When he heard the latch lift on the basement door, he shot to his feet, peering eagerly up the staircase. Missouri's feet came into view, then the rest of her as she descended. Sam noticed she had a hypodermic syringe in her hand. A sedative, he decided, thinking it was a good precaution in the circumstances. She smiled at him apologetically.

Sam craned his neck, trying to see past her and was rewarded by the sight of his brother's boots. "Dean," he breathed, feeling his stomach lurch with a mixture of anticipation and dread.

Dean came down the stairs, treading slowly; he still looked pale and shaky but Sam was so happy to see him upright and conscious that he couldn't help the huge grin that stretched across his face.

"Dean!" he blurted again, unable to stop himself.

His brother reached the foot of the stairs. He was staring at Sam, his eyes shifting up and down as he checked him over, their movement still for a moment as he focussed on the restraints.

Sam smiled, shrugged. "It's okay. I don't mind 'em. Just want to be sure you're safe."

Dean nodded, tight lipped. He looked a little nervous and Sam felt his smile giving way. It was a big moment and despite hours of practicing in his mind, now it came down to it, he really didn't know what to say. How do you apologise to the person who is closest to you in the whole world, apologise for treating them like shit for weeks, setting them up for a beating, letting them nearly die from an injury they were too scared to tell you about?

It seemed, though, that Missouri wasn't the only psychic in the room, but then again Dean had always seemed to know instinctively what his little brother was thinking, what he needed.

"It's okay, Sam," he said in a gruff voice. "It wasn't you. Not your fault. It's gonna be okay."

Sam huffed a little, grimacing, thinking of the asylum. "How many times are you gonna have to say that to me?" he asked miserably.

"Many times as it takes, Sammy. Goes with the job. It's the family business, remember." Dean's tone was firm, but Sam could see the hurt in his eyes.

"Dean, I am so sorry."

"I know. I know you are, Sam."

Impulsively Sam stepped forwards, as far as the restraints allowed, reaching out to his brother. He was horrified when, just for a second, Dean flinched backwards.

"No! Dean, no! I'm not gonna do anythin', just wanted to give you a hug man!"

Dean dropped his chin, cheeks flushing a little. "Hug, huh?" He stepped forwards so he was within Sam's reach, then froze as Sam moved forwards carefully, gradually gathering him into his arms, careful not to jar his back. He could feel Dean's tenseness, the tremble of nerves through his frame.

"It's okay, Dean. It's not gonna happen again. I promise. I am **never** goin' to let anything bad happen to you again." He hung on to his brother, feeling the tense muscles slowly relax. Eventually Dean raised his arms too, gave him a quick hug and a slap on the back.

"Okay, Sam," he breathed. "Okay." He pulled carefully away.

-o-

John stood next to his truck, cell phone pressed to one ear. As he listened, he let the relief wash through him, allowed himself to drop back against the warm metal of the side panel.

"Yeah… good to hear…" His thigh muscles were shaking, relief and exhaustion unravelling his determination to stay upright. He swallowed, biting down on his emotions, trying to concentrate on the voice in his ear.

"Yeah, it was close, too close. I'm gonna have to go radio silent. Got somethin' to take care of first, then I'll be flyin' under the radar."

John finished the call. He took a deep breath, groaning a little at the grind of broken ribs. He let his chin drop and closed his eyes. He concentrated on the image burned into his memory; it was time to deal with some unfinished business.

Like so many before him, John had come back from war a changed man, only a battered surface on show. Those few acquaintances who truly knew him were uncomfortably aware that beneath that rugged and impenetrable surface, John Winchester and death walked shoulder to shoulder.

When he raised his head and climbed into the truck cab there was something feral smouldering in his dark eyes, a calm ferocity in the twist of his bruised face and the set of his jaw.

-o-

3 days later

Healing, physical and emotional, was easy in the calm ambience of Missouri's home, but by day three both brothers were feeling the need to move on. Not far, just a couple of towns maybe, stay in a motel for a while, get used to it being just the two of them again.

Missouri understood of course; she'd probably known they were leaving before they did.

Dean paused at the top of her porch steps, watching as Sam threw the duffles into the Impala. His attention was focussed on Missouri.

"How did you manage it?" It was a reasonable question. One small woman, two large men, one unconscious and one infected by a demon virus. She knew what he was really asking, could read the flicker of hope in his wide eyes.

"I had help, of course."

"I didn't see no-one else?"

"Doesn't mean they weren't here." It was as much as she could give him.

He sighed, knowing he wouldn't get more. "Thank you. For everythin'" His voice was earnest, eyes fixed directly on her own.

"Honey, you're welcome. You take care of yourself now and of that brother of yours."

He nodded, stepping carefully down the steps. Sam rushed over to help, but was brushed off impatiently with a terse, "M'okay!"

Dean came to a sudden halt as he gave the Impala his full attention. She was gleaming, black paint unblemished and glossy, chrome gleaming. The headlight was fixed.

"Sam!" A little soft smile quirked his lips, followed immediately by a frown. "I hope you…"

Sam cut him off, anticipating the question. "Yeah, man. All genuine parts. She looks good doesn't she?" He smiled hopefully at his brother.

"Yeah, Sam. She does." Dean grinned at him, running a hand appreciatively along his baby's smooth curves. Both brothers understood that Sam wasn't completely forgiven, but he was certainly heading in the right direction.

Leaving Dean to admire the Impala, Sam climbed back up to Missouri.

"Thank you," he said. "For everything. For being here. Dad didn't show. It's good to know we can rely on someone."

Missouri frowned a little. "Don't you go bad-mouthing your Daddy. He's a good man."

Sam snorted, "You don't know him like I do."

"No, Sam." Her chin was lifted, voice firm. "You don't know him like I do."

He shrugged, clearly not believing her. "Thank you," he repeated.

"No need to say it. You two look after each other."

No hesitation this time, his hazel eyes earnest. "We will."

-o-

Sam slouched out of the bathroom, towelling his hair vigorously. Dean noticed with amusement that the crisp motel towel wasn't doing too much good absorbing the water from his brother's shaggy mop of hair.

"Havin' a little trouble there, Sam?" He smirked, letting it grow into a grin and ducking away as Sam shook his head, showering him with droplets of apple-scented water.

"Dude," Dean protested mildly, turning his attention back to the laptop, open on the table in front of him. Quick check of the news, he thought and we'll be on our way. A couple of days in the familiar environment of a shabby motel, no-one but themselves to think about, had done a lot to get them back into their usual routine. There were still awkward moments, but considering everything that'd happened, things were pretty good.

Still standing, Dean rested a hip against the window ledge and began tapping on the keyboard. _"Nothin' much goin' on…"_ he thought.

Across the room, Sam gave his hair up as a bad job and started folding things into his duffle. "You 'bout ready to make a move?"

"Yeah, just checkin' the news and we'll get on outta here, I want to get to…" His words tailed off as he focussed on the headline blazoned across the screen. ' _CONVICTED RAPIST SHOT DEAD._ ' Underneath the headline was a photograph of 'Jake's Bar' with police tape and cruisers in the foreground. A smaller photograph was inset, the smirk of the oily-voiced man unmistakeable as he stared arrogantly out of the screen.

Dean shuddered, dropping into a chair as his knees started to shake, his gaze fixed on the screen. ' _Convicted rapist, Dillon Hemming, was shot dead last night by an unknown assailant. Two close associates were beaten, receiving severe injuries. They were unable to describe the attacker, although an unidentified black truck was seen leaving the scene. Hemming was convicted of serial rape against both sexes and multiple cases of assault just three years ago. His surprise release on a legal technicality last year shocked the local community…'_

"Dean! Are you okay?" His brother was staring at him with concern and Dean realised it wasn't the first time Sam had spoken. He nodded wordlessly, closing the screen and rapidly deleting the history as Sam stood up and walked towards him.

"M'fine." He hardened his voice. "Fine. Need to get goin'." He slammed the lid of the laptop shut and yanked the power cable out.

Sam didn't look convinced. "You went really pale there, dude?"

Dean just shrugged, pushed past him and began stuffing things in his duffle; this was one of those occasions when he was definitely not going to share. It bothered him that for some reason all he could see in his mind was John, standing in front of him on a dirt track, telling him it wasn't his fault, but with murder in his eyes.

-o-

2 weeks later

Two good old-fashioned salt'n'burns under their belts, one skanky long-dead post mistress and a Billy the Kid wannabe laid to rest, and the boys felt back on track. It was time to move on, put the whole demon virus thing to rest. Leave it to be hashed over some time in the future with all the other stored traumas, when there was time, if there was ever that much free time.

Love and remorse, what powerful weapons they'd turned out to be after all. Who knows how many more times the Winchesters would have to rely on them to keep fighting.

-o-

Dean dropped the taser box in the trunk, he beamed happily at Sam, "Tasers! Now we've checked 'em out on you, we'll give the next fugly bastard we run across a shock. Ha, shock Sammy, get it!" He chuckled at his own joke and waggled his eyebrows. Sam grinned too, happy to see his brother smiling again. One thing for sure, Sam wasn't going to be doing anything to cause that taser to be aimed at him again.

He threw his duffle in the back seat and paused, eyeing Dean and shuffling his feet awkwardly. Dean watched him warily, "What's up Sam?"

"So we're okay?" Sam's could feel his face screwing up with anxiety as he looked pleadingly at his brother.

Dean sighed, "Yeah, Sam, we're ok. Just give it some time, alright?"

Sam nodded, he wasn't entirely happy but it was good enough for now.

"I do owe you one thing though, Sammy."

Sam looked up, just in time to take a face full of Dean's fist. He sat down hard on his backside, hand flying to his jaw with surprise.

"That's for hurtin' my baby!"

Sam burst out laughing, spitting blood from his throbbing lip onto the ground and took hold of Dean's offered hand.

"Was that really necessary?" a frosty voice interrupted behind them.

Dean narrowed his eyes, sending a death glare in the direction of the voice, but Sam laughed again.

"Oh yes, ma'am, I definitely deserved that one!"

The End.

_**So, this story turned out a lot longer than I planned!** _

_**I hope I've tied up all the loose ends I created so that this fits in between canon episodes -** _ _**the boys never know John was there, Bobby is very much in the background on the end of a phone, so he's not in the boys' recollections of that time either, one explanation why Sam is so insistent he won't let Dean die in Faith, the tasers... and of course demon mojo (thank you Babyreaper for noting I hadn't explained the lack of demon-style flinging when they were fighting John) we hadn't seen any of that in canon at that point in time. :-)** _

_**As always, if you have time to comment, even if it is years after this was written, I will really appreciate it. :-)** _

Thank you all for reading, I hope you enjoyed the story.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!  
> Kudos make me very happy :-)
> 
> Please see my profile for a link to a Russian translation of this work.


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